


wild card (nobody, nobody)

by dramaturgicallycorrect



Series: all my favorite conversations [16]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Tennis, Drag me down au, M/M, almost no actual tennis, wimbledon au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-20 23:39:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaturgicallycorrect/pseuds/dramaturgicallycorrect
Summary: Harry crinkles a smile back at Liam. “See you later,” he says, softer, like a promise, kissing him on the lips quickly before he’s out the door.Liam’s heart races a little. They hadn’t made any plans, it could just be a general see ya later type deal. Like, we’re both here at Wimbledon, the statistical likelihood we see each other is pretty high, see you later! But the thing is, Liam really does want to see him later.[Or Harry is Britain’s Best Chance and Liam is a wild card at the Championships, Wimbledon.]





	wild card (nobody, nobody)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bek/gifts).



> I am eternally and forever grateful for Bek, without whom this would not exist, whose support carried me through over a year and a half of writing this and not writing this and writing this again. 
> 
> To Fina, for your incredible, unwavering support and feedback, you're the reason I finished this. To any pal who listened to me whine about this fic, anyone who's talked to me about it on tumblr, I hope this meets your approval. Thank you very much to the Big Bang organizers, as always, you do something incredible, we're in your debt.
> 
> Finally, the most thanks to [Salem](http://harrys-grammy.tumblr.com), my brilliant, inimitable artist. I fell out of my chair, shrieking with happiness upon seeing your art, I'm so so so happy. You're incredible. Thank you.
> 
> -
> 
> this is a wimbledon au, like the movie wimbledon, in addition to the sporting event wimbledon. It's also part of the all my favorite conversations series, in which i write one fic for every song in MITAM - as always, you don't have to be familiar with the other fics to read this.

He doesn’t know what sort of sorcery Niall pulls to get him charity gigs, but Liam’s thankful for it. It’s his favorite part of his job -- at this point, it’s the only thing he looks forward to. It’s rare that a charity can profit off the appearance of a player once ranked 7th best in the world (ten years ago). But Liam likes to do what he can.

It’s a little attended match between him and the comedian Jack Whitehall. Most of the crowd are up at Murray’s match, where he’s head to head with Chris Martin -- Liam would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little disappointed to be missing that. It’s mostly Liam gently serving so Whitehall can return the ball, so it’s actually a _game_ and not one person (Liam) hitting the ball and the other person (Whitehall) ineffectively running around after it.

The kids do better than Whitehall when he’s doing the charities for youth players. Even the three year olds who spend most of their time toddling around the court trying to whack each other with their rackets manage to serve better.

It’s always a laugh, though, and Liam wonders if he couldn’t just make a career out of doing that, chasing kids around, trying to get them to play tennis. He wonders if they’ll remember him long enough into his retirement to keep inviting him to those sorts of things.

Liam trounces Whitehall, but it doesn’t feel like much of a victory. Liam shakes the chair umpire’s hand and goes to shake Whitehall’s, but he’s doubled over, hands on his knees heaving in labored breaths. Liam isn’t sure if it’s for comedic effect, because there are cameras about, so he just sort of stands there until Whitehall does something.

He slaps blindly at Liam until Liam grabs his hand and gives it a firm shake.

“You’ve nearly killed me,” Whitehall gasps.

“Nah, you’re fine, mate,” Liam says as Whitehall straightens up. “I went easy on you.”

Whitehall chuckles disbelievingly, throwing a salute to the chair umpire, who looks utterly unimpressed by the violation of protocol. Liam gives him a shrug and a look that says, _comedians, eh_?

Whitehall slaps at Liam’s arse and they work their way off the court to the little makeshift stage for their postgame press conference. They do a few scripted jokes about tennis and UNICEF until the laughter winds down.

Liam looks out in the crowd to find Niall, to lock eyes with him and find his reassuring smile before he can gather enough courage to go through with it. They’ve practiced it about a dozen times, so Liam knows exactly what to do. It doesn’t stop him from being completely terrified, his stomach hopping up into his throat. He doesn’t get stage fright. But he’s never exactly retired from tennis before.

“I started my professional tennis career at sixteen and it’s been the best fifteen years of my life,” he starts. “I have been grateful to be part of this brilliant community, to play alongside the greatest athletes in the history of tennis. I’ve been fortunate to spend this much time as a professional athlete, in the game that I love.”

He surveys the audience and finds blinking back at him the dead eyes of sports reporters reduced to cover the third best charity tennis match going on that day. _You can do this_ , he tells himself. _Your turn to serve, go for the ace_.

“So I’d like to take this opportunity to announce my retirement from professional tennis following the completion of Wimbledon in two weeks,” he says to little to no reaction. He’s thrown off his speech by the silence. “I’d, uh, I’d like to thank all of the fans, anyone who’s come to see me play. And. Um. Yeah.”

The reporters make note of it and nod and there aren’t any questions. Whitehall clears his throat and Liam bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything else unless there’s a reporter question. Niall nods at him, gives him a quick thumbs up, but they’re still not saying anything. They didn’t exactly prepare for there to be no questions at all, but Liam figures they should have.

“Was it something I said?” Whitehall jokes to fill the silence. Liam tosses him a grateful grin.

“It was your performance just now,” Liam explains. “I simply lost all hope in tennis after witnessing that.”

“My mum will never forgive me,” he answers, laying a hand over his heart. “She’s a huge fan.”

Liam gets the sign from Niall to wrap it up, so he says, “Thanks very much for coming. I know you’re here for your jobs, but please do consider donating.”

It falls on deaf ears, all of the reporters having begun to shuffle out of their seats as soon as Liam said thanks. He trades a few friendly words and shoulder slaps with Whitehall before he thumps down off the stage and over to Niall.

“Well, that was nothing short of a nightmare,” Liam says, grabbing his bag from Niall and throwing it over his shoulder.

“Wasn’t as bad as all that,” Niall says, but it’s a weak argument. He nudges a finger under Liam’s jaw. “Chin up, eh, mate?”

Liam nods and Niall throws an arm around his shoulder to walk him out to the carpark.

Niall’s never asked him any questions about any of it. Liam told him he wanted to retire and Niall let him. Well, not _let him_ because Liam certainly does what he wants. But Niall was supportive. Told him if it was time to go, it was time to go.

He wants a new challenge is the thing. He wants to learn and grow instead of feeling stagnant. When he wakes up in the morning, he wants to feel like there’s nothing else in the world he wants to do but play tennis. But he doesn’t feel that way anymore, and it’s killing him.

He’s had everything he’s ever wanted, and he feels selfish that it isn’t enough for him anymore. He feels selfish every time he talks to Niall about it, a mind on Niall’s injury, on how he was ripped from the game instead of allowed to retire on his own terms. Niall doesn’t seem to hold it against him, though.

He can’t help but wonder if anyone else does, though, the young ones scrambling for their first big break. Liam was one of them once, itching to get a slot in his first big tournament, getting locked out by fading stars grandfathered into wild card spots because of a sense of duty, not skill. The way he’s playing, he’s on the cusp of becoming an embarrassment, just before whispers start to follow him around the community.

Get out while he’s middling, get out before he’s a failure.

“I’m just going to,” Liam trails off vaguely. _Stress eat cheeseburgers_ is the end of the sentence he can’t finish. He’s under a strict diet by Jarvis that Niall’s meant to enforce when he can, but rarely does so because he knows Liam’s own intense guilt over breaking the rules is far better in terms of policing himself.

“I’ve got you a room for the tourney,” Niall says with a frown.

“I’ll check into it tomorrow, I promise.”

“Tommo’s?” he guesses.

“Yeah.”

Niall purses his lips disapprovingly but says nothing. It’s enough for Liam, because he doesn’t pick up a dozen cheeseburgers from McDonalds like he plans to. He stops by a shop to get the ingredients for a protein shake that Jarvis has texted him the instructions for.

He’s stopped by the only magazine with an article about Wimbledon on the cover. It comes with an admittedly embarrassing picture of Harry Styles, the bloke who’s come out of nowhere this season, smashed his time at the Australian Open, and won the French Open.

His face is scrunched in what looks to the normal eye like pain or perhaps constipation, but any tennis player knows is just the intensity of focusing on a serve. His body is contorted in an awkward position, arm high up above his head, his white sleeve slid down to show the dark tattoos that cover his bicep.

It’s an odd picture, but it’s captioned “Britain’s Best Chance,” so Liam doesn’t imagine Harry Styles would mind too much.

It’s a lot of pressure, Liam thinks as he replaces the magazine back on the rack, not only gaining international acclaim seemingly overnight, but having the entire hope of one country rest upon your shoulders… Liam doesn’t envy him. His days like that are over. He’s lucky to just get a seat at the table these days.

He takes the Tube over to Louis’, who’s got an open door policy for Liam and Liam only, has done since they were kids. Liam’s always had a key; to Louis’ mum’s, to any number of Louis’ flats, always had a place he could go where nobody would give a shit about tennis when Liam didn’t want to be talked to about it, when Liam needed a safe place to decompress.

Niall gets it, for all his pursed lips, why Liam needs this. Liam had told him back when he signed on with Niall, years after his prime, when no one else wanted him, no one else knew what to do with him. Niall was fresh off his surgery, still using the cane, everyone still mourning the loss of Ireland’s favorite son.

Niall got him, right from their first meeting. Liam had explained what it felt like when the pressure got to be too much. It felt like he was being swallowed up, like he couldn’t breathe, his eyes couldn’t focus, his mind was full of noise.

Anxiety, Niall had said. Liam knows he hasn’t been doing his best and he’s been beating himself up about it. Something left over from being a kid who was so determined to succeed he’d make himself sick if he didn’t. He’s made himself sick as an adult too, knowing he wasn’t doing his best. He’s never learned how to accept defeat.

His previous agent hadn’t understood, told him to push through it or he’d be dropped. Not Niall. Never Niall.

So Niall allows him space, doesn’t begrudge him a safe place. And it’s always going to be Louis. Louis is particularly gifted at not giving a shit about things.

“Hey, Tommo,” Liam calls out, struggling a little to get the door closed with all of the bags in his hands, He manages it eventually, wincing at how forcefully he’s accidentally slammed it shut. It echoes through the warehouse-like studio Louis’ got, all open space, high ceilings, and large windows instead of walls.

“Oi oi, Payno,” he answers, shuffling into view. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, barely dressed, his hair sticking up in about thirty-seven different directions, eyes sort of squinted shut. Liam got up at 5 this morning. “How’d you do?”

Liam blinks at him. “I won?”

“Shit,” Louis hisses, pulling his phone out of nowhere and typing at it as he walks into the kitchen.

“Did you bet against me?” Liam asks, following him. “Against Jack Whitehall?”

“I thought maybe you’d throw it. You know. Because charity.” He flaps a distracted hand.

“No, Louis. Not because charity.”

Louis tilts his head. “Well, dinner’s on you, then.”

“Who’s taking bets on a charity match anyway?”

Louis laughs at him. It’s the closest he ever gets to caring about tennis, betting on Liam’s matches. It’d just be great if Louis didn’t bet against him winning so often. And it’d be even better if Liam stopped making Louis money.

Liam unpacks his shopping bags all over the counter and Louis makes a disgusted noise, picking up a stalk of kale and wrinkling his nose at it.

“How dare you bring this shit into my home,” Louis says and shoves it down the sink before Liam can do anything about it. He flips on the water, then the garbage disposal until the grinding sounds like it’s effectively destroyed the kale.

Liam purses his lips at Louis and pulls another stalk of kale from the bag and deliberately drops it into Louis’ blender with a triumphant look. He planned for that.

Louis goes to say something, but Liam switches on the blender just before to drown him out. Louis stops and narrows his eyes, so Liam pauses to drop a few more things in the blender and switch it on again as Louis gears up to say something else. Louis dives in under the arm Liam’s got on top of the blender to go for a nipple twist, and Liam’s hand nearly leaves the lid in his attempt to avoid it.

He almost takes his hand off anyway, serves Louis right, but he doesn’t.

Liam laughs, feeling the stress of the day slowly seep away. He doesn’t have to think about how early his practice session is tomorrow or how to answer questions about his retirement or how to deal with it if nobody wants to ask questions about his retirement.

It’s like his own fortress of solitude. But like, with less solitude because Louis’ there and he’s physically incapable of leaving Liam alone.

Sometimes Liam wonders what would happen if he talked to Louis about all of it. If he asked Louis, _why do you think I was never good enough to be Britain’s Best Chance._ If he told Louis about the silence of the room of reporters and how that felt more deafening than them shouting at him for answers.

They don’t do that kind of thing, though.

\--

Liam is tired down to his bones from a full day of training by the time he gets to the hotel room Niall’s booked him. The room is much nicer than Liam’s used to -- Niall must have pulled some fairly incredible strings to get the agency to swing something this swank. Especially for a player they won’t make money off going forward.

The first thing he does is pop on the television because the room is too quiet. Not even the general hum of London seems to be able to penetrate the room. Liam hates the quiet. Ironic, given he picked one of the quietest sports to dedicate his life to.

He’s not sure how much he should unpack his case. He’d hate to settle in only to have to pack it all again in a few days. But it’s not like he’s brought much clothing beyond the suit he’s wearing tonight and his match outfits.

When he finishes setting up his toiletries in the bathroom, he shuffles back into the main room to find Niall lounging on his bed with his eyes glued to the screen. Liam flops half on top of him, Niall doesn’t even seem to notice.

“I’m here with Harry Styles, Britain’s Best Chance at a Wimbledon Championship,” the interviewer says.

“Uh, I wouldn’t go that far,” he interrupts with a bemused grin. “There’s actually a young lady, her name is Cassidy Freeman, and she’s _ace_.” He pauses and waits for the joke to land. The interviewer smiles politely and Harry clears his throat. Liam is delighted a little to see him thrown off his game.

Liam’s heard of Harry Styles, beyond what he’d seen of him off the magazine last night. Adidas’ first sponsored tennis player in years, something of an ingenue, heard him play at some of the same matches Liam’s done, but he’s somehow managed to never see his game. He’s never needed to.

Harry’s supposed to be good -- he’s seeded for Wimbledon even -- but Liam’s mostly familiar with the controversies. The long hair he keeps folded up into a meticulous bun. The pink headband debacle. Whatever that thing was about Steffi Graf. It’s a good thing he’s got the game to back up the media stunts.

He hasn’t studied Harry too hard leading up to the championships, especially once he’d seen where Harry was ranked compared to him. Harry’s in section four on the top half, and Liam’s sitting comfortably in section eight of the bottom half. The only chance they’d meet is at the Finals. And the Finals are a pipe dream.

They break the interview to play some footage of Harry, some of it older, judging by the shorter length of his hair, trailing all the way up to the French Open just a month ago. The longer Liam watches, the harder it hits him -- Harry isn’t just _good_ , he’s a fucking natural. Liam’s not seen anyone make it look so easy, not for many years. There’s a natural fluidity to it all, Harry makes it look like an art.

“Shit,” Liam mutters, his hand moving to massage his chest. It’s not jealousy that grips him, but awe. This is the way tennis is supposed to look.

“This is your first Wimbledon, shocking for a Brit,” she says. “You famously defected at the beginning of your professional career to Los Angeles. Tell me, Harry, if you win, do you mind if we still claim you for our own?”

“Not at all,” Harry says and flashes a smile Liam can’t tell is forced or genuine.

Liam’s never heard him interviewed before, never heard the deep and slow voice that’s practically hypnotic pick its way through questions.

Harry’s got the interviewer charmed in seconds, even after his joke had fallen flat, and he gets away with giving the most ridiculous answers Liam’s ever heard to the same fifteen questions all athletes get asked. He’s effortless about it all -- even though his answers are strange, they seem deliberately strange. Like he’s playing a part.

“So, Harry. What’s on deck for you if you lose Wimbledon?” she asks. It’s a question designed to allow them to give well-scripted answers about determination and focus and the love of the game. Liam loves talking about that kind of stuff. He just wishes it wasn’t framed in such a negative context. But Niall’s told him more than a few times nothing sells like negative context.

“Well, I used to be a baker, so I’ll probably just, y’know, head back to the shop,” Harry answers and doesn’t appear to have anything more to say.

Liam blinks. Well. That’s an answer.

“Met him at the French. Heard he’s looking for a new agent,” Niall says. “Thank god for that. They’re doing it all wrong. Too much too soon, bloke’s everywhere. They’re gonna saturate the market and if he doesn’t win, they’ll forget about him by August.”

“You should go for it, since I’m putting you out of a job and all.”

Niall looks unimpressed, but he keeps watching Harry, as though critically examining his performance. That’s the kind of thing Niall looks for, not only potential on the court, but in who they are as a person. It has to be, considering Liam’s not had much potential on the court for years.

“You know you’re not my only client, right?”

Liam drops his jaw and clutches his chest, scandalized. “This betrayal cuts deep.”

“I’ll live,” Niall says, but a smile plays around the corners of his lips.

“Am I your favorite client? Niall?” He leans further into Niall, who keeps fighting his smile and even throws in an eyeroll for good measure. “Niall. Tell me I’m your favorite. I’m fragile, I’m retiring from tennis in three days.”

Niall’s half-smile drops and he finally looks down at Liam. “Wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

“It’s a joke,” Liam says, but it’s also what the broadcasters had said of him fifteen minutes ago when they ran through their predictions of wild card performances. They actually said he wouldn’t get through the first round, so Liam’s three days are actually quite generous.

But Liam knows what he is, he knows his chances. He’s a wild card.

\--

Niall excuses himself almost as soon as they enter the opening night party upstairs in the hotel’s biggest ballroom -- another unforgivable betrayal, but he’s got a duty to perform as Ireland’s Favorite Son.

Liam’s left on his own to field comments about the impending retirement to countless rich sponsors and a few fellow players. It all seems polite, though, like no one else can think of anything to talk to Liam about, but they do know this. The longer he leaves himself in it, he’s regretting mourning the lack of attention from the day before.

“Serena Williams won Wimbledon at thirty-one,” one of them says and lets the _too early for retirement_ implication lay between them.

Liam tries to keep his answering expression more of a smile than a grimace. “Well, she’s Serena Williams, isn’t she.”

“Too right,” says the old man.

Liam excuses himself then, heads out of the ballroom to one of the balconies. Certainly not with the intention of hiding. He’s a grown man. He does think, though, he could slip away unnoticed. Hop in the elevator a few floors down to his room. If Niall texted him to see where he was at, he could probably sneak back in in no time, pretend like he was there the whole while.

He stays anyway. The balcony is enough for now.

The heat is thick with post-rain humidity, not a hint of a breeze even this far up in the air. He can see Centre Court from here, trained to recognize its shape basically from any altitude. Also the hotel is two blocks from it, so that helps. Centre Court looks peaceful, lit up in all its glory as if to beckon for him, tease him.

He’s never played it, not even in his prime, but he’s been there, as a spectator and as a respected member of the BBG when he was a kid. Not for the Finals or anything, but near enough.

He leans a little further, hands gripping at the rain-slick railing to see if he can get a better glimpse at the court itself beyond the edges of the retractable roof, to imagine little ant-sized players sprinting after an invisible ball, to wonder if you can hear the cheering from this far away. Probably not.

“When I was seven, I had this stuffed toy fox,” says a voice from behind him.

Liam jerks against the railing, takes a step back even though he wasn’t in any real danger. He turns wide eyes to the arse who scared the shit out of him.

It’s Harry Styles, of course it is, leaned against the wall with his hands behind his back, looking mildly alarmed. Liam’s heart flips again, but it’s not like Harry could possibly know, just by looking at him, that he spent half the afternoon watching videos of him at the French Open. That’d be -- ridiculous.

Liam apologizes, even though he’s not sure he’s done anything wrong, and he makes sure the apology is directed to Harry’s face, and not to his bare chest on display under his nearly completely unbuttoned shirt. Liam isn’t sure if he feels hideously overdressed in his suit and tie when Harry’s not even got a jacket on, until he remembers that Harry’s the odd one out. That seems to be his style. And it looks fucking amazing on him.

Harry apologizes back, ruffling his hand through his long hair and pushing it back off his face. “I’d have been in a world of trouble if I scared Liam Payne over the side of a balcony.”

The usual strange thrill runs through Liam’s body that happens whenever someone recognizes him, it’s never been something he could learn how to turn off. Something about it being Harry Styles heightens it, doubles the thrill when Liam sees his big green eyes looking kindly at him, his mouth stretched into a hesitant smile that Liam returns.

“I’m eager to win, but not so desperate as to resort to manslaughter, m’sure you understand,” Harry continues.

“Of course,” Liam finally gets his dumb mouth to say. Of course that’s why Harry recognizes him. He’s probably studied the competition far more than Liam has. It’s nice that Harry even considers him competition.

“I’m Harry,” he says, stretching a hand and in one step he’s close enough for Liam to take it.

“Liam, hello,” he says even though Harry’s just said it.

“Lovely to meet you. As I was saying before you nearly threw yourself off this balcony to rappel down to the ground like a spy just to escape how boring my story was.”

“I would never,” Liam laughs even though Harry doesn’t know that about him. He really never would.

“I had this stuffed fox when I was seven,” Harry continues like he doesn’t hear him say anything. “I named it Foxy, because it was.” Harry winks and Liam tries not to laugh. He laughs anyway. “And I brought it with me everywhere, like you do when you’re seven and you’ve got an excellent stuffed fox named Foxy.

“And my parents one year, they got tickets to see a game at Wimbledon, nothing fancy, like, one of the first games, but it was at Centre Court, and it was my first match at tennis, right, it was brilliant, and I had gotten so taken with the idea of going out immediately, right after the match, to go learn the game, that I’d left him behind in the stands. Didn’t even notice.”

Liam makes a sympathetic noise and Harry nods seriously. He fights the impulse to reach out for Harry.

“I was gutted, naturally, cried and cried. And my mum told me it was okay because the stadium had adopted him and they said they’d take care of him. He’d get to meet the world’s greatest tennis players and one day I could go there too to play, and he’d tell me all about it, right?”

“Oh, of course,” Liam says instantly and Harry nods again, seemingly pleased that they both agree his stuffed toy fox has inadvertently become the secret mascot of the Championships, Wimbledon. For just a moment, Liam wonders why Harry is even telling him this ridiculous story.

“Anyway you should let me know if you see him. He’s about this big, fuzzy, red-brown, looks world-wearied, most likely.”

Liam laughs. There’s not a chance he’s getting onto the Centre Court, but he promises anyway.

“You’re a real pal, Liam Payne,” Harry says, crinkling a wide smile at him. There’s something different about him here than he was on the television, his voice sounds different, stronger, faster, his attitude seems a little less measured.   

Liam isn’t really sure what to do with him then, though neither does Harry, so they watch each other in silence. Harry looks softer with his hair down and wavy, brushing at his shoulders. Liam knows he’s not seen much of him, but he can’t stop cataloging differences between the somewhat disinterested Harry on television, the intense Harry on the cover of a magazine, and _this_ Harry exuberantly telling a complete stranger intimate details from his childhood.

It’s a sweet story, Foxy, the kind Liam could see in a magazine anyway, the sort of things publicists like them to tell because sweet stories test well. Not as well as sensational stories, but they do test well.

“I found you,” a voice crows just before there’s a body pressing up against Liam’s back and there are arms clamping around his chest.

“Hello, Niall.” Liam pats Niall’s hands and cranes his neck to look at him. Niall’s a bit glassy-eyed, which figures. When he gets tipsy, he gets warm and handsy.

Liam looks up to see Harry looking bemused between the two of them and Liam throws him an apologetic smile. He unwraps Niall and shifts him around until he’s facing Harry. “This is -- ”

“Harry Styles, yeah,” Niall says before launching a hug attack on him as well. Most people stutter in shock, but Harry looks pleased as he wraps his arms up around Niall’s upper back.

“Harry, this is -- ”

“Niall Horan, Ireland’s favorite son,” Harry supplies, giving Liam a wink.

“Well,” Liam huffs. “If you two don’t need me.”

He doesn't know why it sits a little funny in him, that Harry knows his name as well. But Harry must be well-versed in his competition, every single one of them. And besides. Everybody knows Niall. He’s practically a legend.

It’s odd being sat between Britain’s Best Chance and Ireland’s Favorite Son, when he’s just… Liam Payne. Once ranked 7th in the world, now ranked 125th at Wimbledon.

“I told you I met him at the French,” Niall says. “What a fuckin’ match, Styles, fuckin’ legend.”

“Wasn’t too bad,” Harry allows.

Niall guffaws and Liam smiles. Wasn't too bad, Harry says. He won the damn thing.

"Good on you for finding Liam." Niall claps his shoulder. "Salt of the fuckin' earth, he is."

"Is he," Harry says, looking over at Liam with an expression that heats Liam's face, burns his ears. When Harry looks away, Liam throws Niall his best _what the hell are you doing_ look. Especially if Niall’s meant to seduce him over to their agency, the last thing to help him on his way is associating with Liam.

Niall ignores him.

Liam's sort of waiting for Harry to let Niall in on his tragic tale of loss, expecting he's likely found every tennis player, current and former, he can tonight just to cover all his bases. As charming as Harry is, he'd have all 127 of his competitors, and then some, with an eye out for Foxy the Lost Stuffed Toy Fox. But Harry just smiles and chats with Niall about whatever Niall wants to talk about. People do that with Niall, they’re always eager to talk about what he wants to talk about.

Harry doesn’t say a single thing about the fox.

Harry eventually excuses himself, having promised to rub elbows with a few people before the night is done. He trades quick hugs with both of them; Liam’s a little startled they’ve gotten comfortable enough to start hugging. He doesn’t mind though, because Harry’s hugs are warm -- he gathers each of them up with both his arms, none of the sorry side hugging most virtual strangers resort to.

Liam watches, sad to see him go. It feels a little like Harry’s taking a little light with him as he goes, that the balcony gets darker after he’s gone. It’s ridiculous, though. It’s nighttime out.

“How ya doing,” Niall says.

“Yeah, no, I’m doing great, buzzing,” Liam says, nodding firmly. “Really excited to get playing tomorrow, truly, it’s going to be a great tournament.”

Niall rolls his eyes at the canned response, but Liam’s had to give it about twenty-seven times since he’s showed up because Niall _abandoned him_.

“Let’s get drinks, huh, Leemo?” Niall says.

“Wimbledon starts tomorrow,” Liam says blandly.

“All right, we’ll get a _water_ then.” Niall bugs his eyes and throws a _look at this guy_ face and thumb to no one. Because they're alone. "You have to come inside for a little, c'mon. Give the people what they want."

Liam laughs and lets Niall guide him inside.

“That’s your boy, there, Gottlieb,” Niall says, nodding off to his first opponent in the corner trying to steal a glass of champagne off a tray.

Niall isn’t kidding, a boy. “Christ, he looks like he’s twelve.”

“You were that young once, your first match, you’d just gotten that hair cut so your hair wasn’t in your face anymore, looking like you were going to shit a brick.”

“You remember that?”

“I remember everything, mate,” Niall laughs. “But I especially remember that look.”

Liam can’t look at him anymore without being reminded of everything he’s told himself, everything he’s had told to himself. There’s hundreds of kids, younger, faster, stronger, better, all jumping for his spot. He should have just let them have it.

\--

Liam presses the down button at the lift and starts loosening his tie before he’s even escaped the party. He’d lasted another twenty minutes, but when Niall had been pulled from him, he knew he needed to call it quits.

Harry comes to stand next to him, his hands folded behind his back, and he stares casually up at the flashing indicator for which floor the lift is on. Liam glances at him a couple of times, trying to figure out how he’s going to start some small talk with him. He doesn’t have any stories about lost stuffed foxes in his back pocket.

Liam ends up going with, “Have fun?” Which is a terrible idea because if Liam was asked the same, he’d have to lie to say yes.

“God, no, it’s suffocating,” Harry says with an exaggerated pained look. “I’ve never had my back heartily slapped by old men so many times in my life. Think I’ve got a bruise forming.” He looks over his shoulder at his own back, as though he might be able to spot the bruise blooming through his silky shirt. Liam has a look too. For reasons of solidarity.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Harry asks suddenly.

Liam looks at the elevator doors and back with his eyebrows quirked. He’s actively in the middle of getting out of here, going back down to his room and going to bed early so he’s well rested for his session with Jarvis tomorrow.

“I meant, like, _out_ out of here. Paint the town,” Harry says.

Liam blinks at him. And thinks Wimbledon starts tomorrow and he needs a good night’s sleep before his training session tomorrow and Harry’s first match is tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Because Harry’s eyes are inviting and he’s leaning toward Liam like he’s the only person in the world worth paying attention to, Liam says, “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn’t expect there to be paps out front, but there are at least three. He really doesn’t expect any of them to snap a picture, but the fact of the matter is he’s with Harry, and Harry’s news. Even when Liam was the seventh best player in the world, he never considered himself news.

It stops Liam up at the door, watching as Harry keeps his head ducked to walk the carpet laid out before the hotel down to the street. Harry looks back at Liam when he gets halfway down, his eyebrows crooked up like a question. Liam shakes himself out of whatever odd funk he’s put himself in and scoots quickly down to him.

“Have a good evening,” Harry tells the paps as he presses his hand to Liam’s back and gently urges him away.

Harry’s hand doesn’t leave his back for a few blocks, but their pace slows to a stroll as soon as the hotel lays forgotten behind them.

“Do they just follow you around?” Liam asks.

“Jim, Brena, and Foster?” Harry says with a flap of his hand. “Oh yeah, they’re old friends.”

“ _Really_?”

“No,” Harry says with an amused smile. “Eighty percent of the professional tennis community was in that hotel, Liam. As healthy a stroke for my ego as that would be, I think they were there for everyone.”

“Right. Sorry. Right,” Liam mutters, his cheeks pinking. It’s just a natural jump for Liam to assume they’re there for Harry. Harry just seems that kind of magnetic.

“It is a bit surreal, though,” Harry says, his voice growing thoughtful. “Like what are people going to do with a picture of me leaving a hotel? The market for that, what do they want with those pictures?”

“Well, you do look very handsome,” Liam says as casually as he can manage. “It’d be a shame to let that shirt go unnoticed by the whole of London.”

Harry’s face lights up, the stretch of his lips popping a dimple in his cheek. Liam can’t see much of it because Harry keeps his head turned in something that could be modesty. It looks different than the smile he’s got on television.

Liam learns he really likes to make Harry smile.

Someone stops them along the way, a young girl with her mobile clutched tightly in her hand, asking if Harry is really _Harry Styles_ and he smiles and says he really is, and before Liam knows it, he’s volunteering to take a picture of the two of them together. Harry apologizes when she’s gone, but Liam waves it off.

They end up talking shop because they’re essentially strangers and there’s not much else they know about each other.

It doesn’t feel stressful with Harry in the way he does with Niall or the rest of the community. He doesn’t feel like he’s got to hide out at Louis’, he doesn’t feel the pressure of his future weighing him down. There’s something about how casual Harry is that makes him breathe easier.

“I met Liam Payne just earlier tonight,” Harry says, once they inevitably get to the Run-ins with Tennis Legends portion of shop talk. “Don’t look forward to meeting him on the court, though.”

Liam chuckles. “I’m sure you know where I am in the standings, having studied your competition. But cheers for pretending we could play each other. You’re honestly -- definitely on another level at this point.”

His hours of, um, purely research earlier tonight confirmed that and Liam’s initial impression. Harry’s a near prodigy, come out of nowhere, plays the game easy as walking.

“Oh.” Harry’s face works into a frown for some reason. “Yeah, ‘course.”

“Do a real one,” Liam prompts.

“I got a bit tipsy at an afterparty and danced with Steffi Graf on a table,” Harry says, slowing to a stop before a shop window. “Andre was there too. He thought it was pretty funny, if I remember correctly. But, ehm, the papers tend to leave that part out.”

Liam is reminded again about sensational news. It’s a better story if Harry’s drunkenly making moves on a married woman. He watches Harry watch the display, all done up like a sunny beach scene Liam’s sure England’s never actually seen. He wonders if Harry misses LA, wonders what took him there to begin with.

Harry seems to get lost in his thoughts or lost in the window display, he looks distressingly vacant. He must go through a lot, that Harry Styles.

“One time John McEnroe asked me who the fuck I thought I was,” Liam says. “I genuinely thought I was going to die on the spot.”

Harry honks this great big laugh, violent and ridiculous. “What on earth were you doing?” he asks, turning his wide eyes to Liam.

“Having a frozen yogurt,” he answers with a helpless shrug and Harry honks again.

The spell is broken. He turns away from the display and Liam follows him easily.

“I have genuinely seen you play, I’ve been to one of your matches,” Harry admits after a while. “A few of them. That’s really why I know who you are. I saw you at the party and had a mild panic about how I was going to talk to you, what I was going to talk to you about, and I just kind of… well, you were there and now you know more about seven year old me than I’m sure you ever wanted to.”

“Oh, a fan,” Liam teases, trying to play it cool but his heart’s pounding. Just the thought of it. Harry Styles, of all people, getting a bit nervous to talk to _Liam_. Harry made it look so easy. “Would you like a picture then, love?”

“Yes,” Harry says, and pulls out his phone to snap a picture of Liam before he’s ready and Harry’s not even in it. Liam blinks a little, bewildered, as Harry nods with approval upon viewing it and pockets his phone without showing Liam. “A dream come true, this is. Truly.”

Liam can’t tell if he’s being dry, but he must be. People don’t consider meeting Liam a dream come true. “Nah, not me, surely. Even my mum thinks you’ve got a better chance at winning Wimbledon than I do. I think she’s pulling for you, truth be told.”

Harry grins and shakes his head. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

“About what?”

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, flapping a hand. “Look, I, for one, cannot stop thinking about frozen yogurt since you’ve said it.”

Frozen yogurt isn’t part of the Jarvis-subscribed diet, but something about Harry’s earnest expression has Liam saying, “We need some. I know a place.”

He takes Harry to the closest Snog he knows of, a few blocks down from Louis’ flat. They look absurdly overdressed in their formalwear in a room full of tourists in raincoats, but Harry doesn’t seem to care, so neither does Liam.

Liam gets a modest serving of birthday cake, tosses a healthy amount of rainbow sprinkles and a few strawberries on it -- in for a penny, in for a pound, really, when trashing his diet -- and calls it done in about two minutes. He knows what he likes.

Harry takes his yogurt selection quite seriously, frowning at each of the flavors and pulling at his lip seriously before he even agrees to take a cup.

He then proceeds to pour a small amount of every flavor into the cup and forgoes the toppings altogether.

“What the hell are you doing, Styles?”

“I just wanted the yogurt.” Harry peers into his cup and then back at Liam.

“Who goes to get frozen yogurt and then only gets the yogurt?”

“Me, Liam. I do,” Harry says, deadpan.

“I can’t believe I’m going to pay actual money for this sad, sad bowl of just yogurt.” Liam snatches the cup from Harry’s hand to bring it to the scale and pay before Harry objects.

“We’re all our own people,” Harry says, suddenly going quite philosophical, his voice getting all dreamy. “What works for me doesn’t have to work for you, and that’s okay.”

“Okay, Harry.”

Harry crowds up behind him and leans in to murmur a soft thank you in his ear as he reaches around him to take his cup off the scale. Liam breathes out a _you’re welcome_ and ignores the conspiratorial wink from the girl at the register as she hands him back his card.

They pick a secluded table in the corner and Liam stares dumbly as Harry stirs up his thirteen different yogurt flavors until they’re all indistinguishable from each other in this grey paste-looking nightmare. He’s like a child.

Liam closely watches Harry take his first bite, careful to spot any sort of disappointment on Harry’s face. But Harry closes his eyes and makes an elated groan as he licks at the spoon, sticking his tongue out to taste it before the spoon goes into his mouth. Then Liam’s thinking about Harry’s mouth in a way that’s really rather inappropriate for the middle of a frozen yogurt shop.

“Fancy a Snog?” Harry jokes, tilting his cup towards Liam.

“Yes,” Liam says, his eyes on Harry’s lips. Then his brain catches up to his mouth and he goes wide-eyed at Harry, some sort of apology attempting to brew.

Harry’s bright grin drops as his face moves into something darker. He scoops a spoonful of his disgusting mixture and holds it out for Liam. Liam allows Harry to stick the spoon in, half expecting him to airplane it into his mouth, given the amount of concentration in Harry’s furrowed brow, but he doesn’t. Liam’s lips press tight against the spoon as Harry pulls it out slowly, the cold yogurt hitting his tongue all at once. It’s not… well. It’s not terrible.

Harry sets his spoon back into the cup, leans in toward Liam, and licks into Liam’s mouth before he’s even finished swallowing his spoonful. Liam battles through the taste of the yogurt to get at Harry’s taste, but before Liam can get too far, Harry ends the kiss with a smack of their lips.

Harry licks his lips and hums a satisfied noise before scooping up another spoonful and popping it in his mouth like nothing’s just happened. Liam watches him dumbly, because that’s all he can do lately, it seems. His face heats up because Harry watches him back, barely takes his eyes off Liam even though he’s eating steadily, tongue-first all the while.

Liam’s abandoned his own cup of birthday cake, having tasted something far sweeter and now he’s only hungry for that. Harry eats every drop of his yogurt, so much so that Liam’s fairly certain he might lick the cup. He kind of hopes Harry does.

It’s pissing rain by the time Harry finishes his assault on his innocent cup of frozen yogurt. Liam gets in a couple of generous spoonfuls of his own when Harry frowns down at how full his cup is before he chucks it.

“Shit,” Liam says, dumbly staring out at the downpour.

“We could grab a taxi back to the hotel, I guess.”

Liam hesitates. It’s not really the rain he’s too concerned with. It’s the hotel and it’s Wimbledon and it’s the paps, most likely. This is an escape, being with Harry. A safe place. That’s what he needs, a safe place.

Louis works nights. Liam thinks he works nights. He’s not entirely sure what Louis does, Louis refuses to talk about it, but he’s never home before sunrise, and Liam and Harry’ll need to get an early start.

“This is really rather forward,” Liam starts.

“I like it already,” Harry interrupts with a grin.

“But my mate’s place is just around the corner.”

“Is it dry?”

Liam thinks. “Probably.”

Harry pushes the door open for him. “Lead the way.”

\--

“Good morning, Liam,” is the first thing Liam hears when the world slowly begins to blink into existence. Everything’s still a little fuzzy, but Liam would recognize Louis’ voice anywhere, any time. “Do you know who gave me this glass of water in my own kitchen?”

Liam rubs at his face and mumbles, “No?” Because he isn’t even aware Louis’ got a glass of water.

“Neither do I. Because he’s a stranger and he’s in my kitchen. In addition to this fact, it’s becoming _increasingly_ apparent to me that you fucked a stranger in my bed and if I weren’t so unreasonably proud of you for pulling, you would be in big fucking trouble.”

“Um,” Liam says, processing everything at what feels like a snail’s pace -- the stranger is Harry and Harry is awake and Louis is here and Louis _knows_ \-- just moments before Louis dumps the entire contents of his glass of water onto his head. Liam sputters and swipes at his eyes.

“I changed my mind, you’re in big fucking trouble,” Louis says primly. “Put some bloody pants on, for god’s sake.”

Liam scrubs at his face and the world sharpens out of its post-sleep haze quickly. He is indeed lying pantsless in Louis’ bed and Harry’s left behind his shape next to Liam like a ghost. In Liam’s very weak defense, he didn’t actually fuck Harry because he’s got a match today, but there were some handies involved, and there are enough suspicious-looking stains on the duvet that Liam figures he probably deserves Louis’ ire anyway.

They’d left innocent behind at the frozen yogurt shop, the two of them chasing each other through the rain-slick streets of London to Louis’ flat, giggling all the way up the stairs until they pressed through his door. They’d stared at each other for what felt like hours, both panting like they were out of breath from the running or the anticipation of what came after.

Harry’s soaking wet hair had laid heavily around his face. Liam had pulled a few errant strands from his forehead, up and away to join the rest of his mane. “Like it when you wear your hair down,” he’d murmured. The world fell away when he kissed Harry.

Liam throws on a pair of pants and some joggers for good measure, a pair of Louis’ that are a bit tight around the waist. He follows the sounds of the blender over toward the kitchen, where Harry stands shameless in a pair of pants, his hair -- far curlier than Liam’s ever seen it in the magazines -- a thick curtain framing his scrunched, concentrated face.

He brightens when he notices Liam’s walking for him, and Liam feels a pressure he didn’t know was in his chest loosens at the sight.

“Hey,” Harry shouts over the noise of the blender, and Liam gives him a lame feeling _hey_ in return. They’re trapped in that transition period where they have to decide how to navigate the morning after, how what they’d done the night before changes everything. Liam’s bricking it, but Harry somehow seems utterly at peace.

Liam doesn’t know how to do this, really. It could just be a thing, just a shag between new mates, or -- Liam doesn’t even know. The point is, he never does this, certainly not in season, and it’s rarely if ever not in season, not with a training schedule like his. He’s not been celibate since age sixteen, not by any means, but he doesn’t allow himself to feel this way. To get this tug in his chest when he looks at someone. There’s never been any time.

Harry switches off the blender and rests his elbows on the counter like the counter belongs to him. “I met your mate Louis. He’s a funny guy.”

Liam runs a hand through his damp hair. “That’s one word for it.”

“I made us shakes?” He gestures at the ingredients Liam left here the other day. “I’ve trained with Jarvis before, I’m sure his recipe is still the same.”

Liam grimaces as Harry pours out two tall cups of the green goo. “It is. Unfortunately.”

Harry downs a third of his shake in one go, leaving a green mustache behind that Liam wouldn’t mind cleaning up for him.

“I have to go,” Harry says, pulling Liam’s attention from Harry licking around his mouth.

Liam’s face nearly falls until he remembers the reason why they’re there in the first place. He presses on a quick smile. “Yes, of course. You’ve got a match to win.”

Harry presses close to him, boxing him in against the counter. Liam is snogged so thoroughly that the taste of the shake doesn’t linger between them for long, and he remembers the night before like a dream. It’s misty and golden, like when Liam would grow up dreaming he’d won Wimbledon. Only Harry isn’t a pipedream and the movement of his lips is so familiar to Liam now he aches.

Harry pulls back, pats at Liam’s chest like he’s satisfied, before turning for the front door.

“Harry.”

“Hm?”

“You’re not clothed.”

“Ah.” Harry pops his forehead like he’s done something silly.

“As much as I’m sure everyone would enjoy the view.” Liam waves a hand, it’s all understood. He’d be lying if he said he wanted to be the reason Harry gets in the papers again for something scandalous. He only wants to see articles about Harry smashing the Wimbledon Men’s Singles tournament.

“Yeah, no, cheers.”

Harry dresses quickly, jumping a little to pull his tight trousers up before jamming his feet into his boots. Liam should probably get on with it too, but he’s entranced. Harry has this way of striking him dumb, softening Liam so much he can’t be anything other than content.

“Do you think you’re going to get papped on your walk of shame back into the hotel?”

Harry grins, something mischievous in it. He gets his hands on Liam’s hips. “Who said anything about shame?”

Liam supposes he’s right.

Harry scoops up his shake, apparently fully intending to take the cup with him even though it belongs to Louis, and bellows, “Bye, Louis!”

“You’re dead to me!” Louis calls back, from the loo by the sound of it.

Harry crinkles a smile back at Liam. “See you later,” he says, softer, like a promise, kissing him on the lips quickly before he’s out the door.

Liam’s heart races a little. They hadn’t made any plans, it could just be a general _see ya later_ type deal. Like, _we’re both here at Wimbledon, the statistical likelihood we see each other is pretty high, see you later_! But the thing is, Liam really does want to see him later.

Harry closes the door behind him and the suddenness of his absence unsteadies Liam. He hadn’t realized exactly how big Harry is, how he fills a whole room when he’s here, how he could fill a whole stadium on his own. Liam gets it, very keenly, he gets why everyone loves him. Why he graces the cover of magazines, why he’s the talk of the entire tennis community.  

His phone buzzes on the nightstand when he goes in for a healthy gulp of his shake. Liam makes a face, chewing on a bit Harry hadn’t blended all the way, swallowing hard before answering, “Good morning, Niall.”

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Niall asks lightly.

Liam pauses for a moment, trying to rack through what he could have possibly forgotten, until he realizes Niall’s got a key to his room and may or may not be standing in it right now, wondering why it’s empty. Maybe Liam could play it off like he went to practice early.

“No?” Liam guesses.

“It’s just about twenty minutes ago, courtside seats were delivered to me for the Styles/Melia match at Centre Court with your name on it.”

Liam chokes a bit and sputters, “Really?”

“And you’re on Harry Styles’ Instagram.”

“I... I didn’t know that.”

Niall hums. “All of these clues point to there’s something you want to tell me.”

Liam starts to sweat, uncertain if he wants Niall to know about it, let alone anyone else. They’re meant to be serious about all this, dedicated to the game and not off eating frozen yogurt and shagging at all hours of the night. This isn’t the bloody Olympics. This is The Championships, Wimbledon.

“Well, you know we met last night.”

“You seemed to have left quite an impression.”

“Must have,” Liam mumbles. Niall, thankfully, lets him off the hook.

“Don’t forget, Jarvis at eight. I’ll see you at one for Harry fucking Styles’ match.”

“Oh, are you coming?”

“Yes, you owe me for bailing last night, don’t think I didn’t notice, mate. Nialler sees all.” He rings off with that rather ominous remark. Liam doesn’t spare a second thought for it.

He quickly thumbs open Instagram, searches for Harry’s profile and follows him quickly before scrolling down to see his latest post from last night. It’s a black and white shot of Liam, the picture he took in front of the shops. Liam’s eyes look like they’ve got stars in them, twinkling by the light of the streetlamps and by Harry’s attention. Liam looks a bit surprised, his mouth parted in a small _o_ and his eyebrows quirked. It’s a nice picture, but Liam would like it better if Harry was in it too.

He scrolls a little. It’s got 14,000 likes. And Harry’s captioned it _Stiff Competition._

\--

Liam, freshly showered after his session with Jarvis, gets to the court before Niall. The audience is already buzzing as much as he is.

The first round always feels like a slaughter, players dropping swiftly out of the competition. It’s like some strange combination of exhilarating and traumatizing for Liam -- he loves the game, loves the competition, but he knows crushing defeat too well to really enjoy it. For every winner, there’s someone who has to go home and lick their wounds.

Niall scoots down the row to Liam just seconds before the match is meant to start. He's got two pints in his hands.

“Niall, I don’t drink during competition.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, these are both for me.” Niall grins. “And if one of my neighbors happened to be thirsty, you know, I’m a pretty generous lad.”

“You didn’t get any strawberries and cream?”

Niall tsks. “Ran out of hands, mate.”

Liam huffs at him.

Niall sits primed for action, leaned forward in his chair like he's incapable of being relaxed. Liam gets that, that feeling of anticipation on the cusp of a great game. Liam's spent decades chasing it as a player, but it's been so long since he's sought it as a spectator. He's been so far removed, he's forgotten what it's felt like to just watch.

He feels a moment of guilt over how long Niall's spent watching instead of playing like he's wanted to. Liam remembers Niall spending years trouncing him and everyone that dared to face him in the court. Liam remembers seeing Niall laid up in hospital, a fresh angry scar running down his leg and a resigned smile on his face.

Liam’s retiring because he doesn't want to do it, like tennis is a luxury. He loves the game, but the game doesn’t love him anymore. It's all he's ever known, and now it doesn't feel like enough. There's nothing new left for him there, nothing to learn -- he’s actually, distressingly, getting worse at it.

It’s better to duck out before he irretrievably embarrasses himself, make way for new blood. They’re the future, honestly, and Liam would have a hand in it if he could. He’d teach them everything he knows -- he’d teach them how to lose.

Not to like _lose_ lose, because obviously he wants them to win, but he’d teach them that it’s okay if you don’t get them all. He’d teach them how to bounce back, how to reenergize, how to keep the spark alive. All those things it’s too late for him to teach himself.

Liam snakes his hand over and steals the pint when Harry walks onto the court, done up in his tennis whites, his hair pulled back tight. He takes a pull to cover the fact that he's breathless just at the sight, long legs, the shorts that flirt with an improper length, the tight shirt.

“Jesus, you have a type.”

“Shut up, Niall.” Liam glowers as Niall titters at him.

It's nothing no one else in the audience isn't also feeling, whatever that electric pulse is that seems to emanate from him, intoxicating everyone in his proximity. In all honesty, Harry's just a tennis player, same as Liam -- better than Liam -- so there shouldn't be anything truly captivating about him inspecting his racket with a scowl of concentration on his face.

But there is.

The stretch of his back when he serves, the strain of his legs as he chases a ball, the grunt he makes with a particularly vicious backhand -- Liam's so attuned to it all. He’s seen Harry play before, and it's usually a thing of effortless beauty. Today Harry's making messy mistakes, amateur moves, trying to swat for balls at the baseline he's got no right to go after.

Liam doesn't catch his eye until after the third set, not that he's trying. It's been a tough match so far, Harry just barely able to get by on a 7-5 for the second set.

It hadn't occurred to Liam that Harry would know he was in the audience, even though Harry was the one who sent him the tickets. Harry does a scan of the row they're sitting in and stops at Liam. He wiggles his fingers a bit in Liam's direction and Liam's too busy grabbing Niall's hands to stop him from waving back to do much more than smile at him.

Harry looks like he's chuckling when he walks back over to serve.

Liam drains his pint when Harry loses the third set and wants to slide off his chair when Harry loses the fourth.

“Seems off,” Niall says, concern taking over his face as he chews at his thumbnail. “He should have had Melia in straight sets.”

“He'll pull it around.” Liam believes it as he says it, sends out whatever good will is sitting inside him all the way across the court to settle into Harry’s chest. He takes every breath Harry does, feels every serve in his muscles, almost to the point that a grunt rips out of Liam’s chest every time Harry connects with the ball.

Harry’s victory is hard won in the fifth set, Melia getting cocky and repeating some of the mistakes Harry’d made just a few sets ago. The crowd screams for Harry, happy he’s got a win at all even though he hadn’t done it fair and square. Harry doesn’t look as stressed by it as Liam feels when he pays his respects to Melia and the chair umpire. Liam doesn’t know how he can manage to be so calm when he was so close to having it all slip through his fingers.

"Nothing like it, is there?"

Liam looks over and Niall's grinning big, light in his eyes bright enough to be contagious, to lift some of the stress off Liam’s chest.

"It's incredible," Liam agrees, reluctant to rise from his seat even though the spectators are already moving for the exits. Centre Court in action is truly a thing of beauty. He remembers all over again why he’d dreamt of playing here, standing on the grass courts at last.

Niall’s hands find Liam’s shoulders, slowly massaging them so they look like they’re doing a conga line to the end of the row. “Ready for tomorrow?”

Liam’s never really known how to answer questions like that, as if there’ll ever be a point where he’ll wake up in the morning and think he’s done all he can to win that day, as if there’s ever a point where he can stop learning and growing and say he’s done enough. He’s done all he can do in the last fifteen years of professional tennis, he’s worked as hard as he can, and his last game’s coming, whether he’s ready for it or not. He just plans to do his best.

So Liam says, “As I can be.”

“That’s the spirit,” Niall deadpans.

“I dunno what you want me to say, Niall.”

“I’m gonna smash it tomorrow and before you know it you’ll also see me play in Centre Court.”

“I’m gonna smash it tomorrow and before you know it you’ll also see me play in Centre Court,” Liam parrots, but it’s not real.

He’s not being defeatist, he’s being realistic. He’s grateful for his wild card spot and he’ll do the best he can. But he’s not going to build himself up just so he gets torn right back down again. He’s had too much of that in his youth, thinking he was invincible and being proven right until he was suddenly and swiftly proven very wrong. Pragmatism is a sign of maturity.

Niall sighs. "Well. Great game. Massive thank you to Harry Styles."

“Yeah, definitely,” Liam says, but then a thought hits him. He never got Harry’s phone number. He glances back onto the court, but Harry’s gone and they’re preparing for the next match.

He’s struck with the thought that maybe he’s not meant to see Harry again. Whatever they had might have been a convenience thing, a settling of nerves. After today Harry’ll resume his position as a friendly member of the tennis community, someone he’ll small talk with at events, someone whose business he’ll learn about secondhand because tennis players are horribly gossipy nags. Someone who’ll go on to conquer the world, if you ask Liam.

It’ll be a world where everybody wants a piece of Harry Styles, and Liam doesn’t know why he thinks he deserves one of his own.

\--

Liam skips out on whatever do they’ve got going for the players tonight, keen for a quiet night in to take a long shower and settle his nerves. He switches on the television in time for the recaps of the day’s matches on ITV, letting the commentator voices trickle into the loo after him. He walks out just as they’re covering Harry’s match.

“It’s nerves, he’ll bounce back,” the younger one says, flapping a careless hand that gets the older one huffing.

“Nerves can kill your chances. One misstep ends the whole competition. If I were Harry Styles, I’d get back to basics, double down, refocus on day three. Britain could use a win. It’s rather slim pickings out there this year.”

“Cheers, mate,” Liam says, tipping a water bottle from the mini-fridge at the screen before cracking it open.

“A host of celebrities trotted their way over to Centre Court today, for Britain’s Best Chance,” the young one says, “including Prince Harry, recording artist Ed Sheeran, and retired tennis great Niall Horan, Ireland’s favorite son, seen here with Liam Payne, a fellow Wimbledon competitor, a wild card pick ranked 125th in competition.”

The show flips through a couple of reaction shots, both of them looking quite tense at the rough game.

“One twenty-five? Doesn’t seem like very _stiff competition_ to me, does he?”

Liam switches off the television, no interest in gossip. He knows he’s not anywhere near as good as Harry, he’s not, like, delusional. Liam’s had his time at the top -- World Number 7 is nothing to sniff at -- and he’ll hopefully retire gracefully before he becomes something of a laughing stock in his own community.

He’s got his trophies, if anyone asks, and he looks forward to what the future holds. Whatever that might be.

There’s a knock on his door. Liam checks his towel’s securely around his waist and cracks it open only so far as he needs to in order to peek out.

It’s Harry, draped against the doorframe, looking like he’s trying really hard to be cool, and he’s just… he’s succeeding. Unfortunately for Liam.

“Good evening, Harry,” Liam tries to say calmly, but his entire body tingles at the sight of him, at knowing that Harry’s come back to him and the entire day Liam’s spent thinking about him hasn’t entirely gone to waste. It might have even been reciprocated.

“Good evening, Liam,” Harry says with a grin.

“You found me.”

“I’d have found you a lot earlier, but I spent the last hour posing dramatically in the doorway of every room on this floor until I found yours.”

“Really?” Liam takes a step back and Harry moves into the room like it’s his.

“Mm, I did,” Harry says, “and I gotta tell you, you’ve got some generous, generous neighbors.”

“I’m getting sloppy seconds? Cheers, Harry.”

Harry laughs and flops over onto his back on the bed, bouncing a little on the mattress at the force of it until he settles in. He stretches his long limbs as far as they can go and just like that, everything that’s Liam’s belongs to him.

“Did you know, it is actually sterile in this room?” Harry asks the ceiling. “Like if I didn’t see your case in the corner, I wouldn’t have thought someone was occupying it.”

Liam shrugs even though Harry can’t see it, doesn’t know if Harry’ll get touchy the way Niall does if he says he’s just trying to be practical about it. “Good match today. Thank you for inviting me.”

Harry turns to him, his eyes could be twinkling, or maybe it’s just the light from the loo reflecting in them. “So formal. You’re welcome, Liam. Come occupy the same space as me, you’re making me nervous.”

He expects Harry to move with intent once Liam settles down next to him, but Harry simply turns his head further and asks, gone quiet with the proximity, “How are you holding up?”

A hundred different deflections pass through his brain, but what comes out is, “I’m bricking it.” Because there’s something about Harry’s open face that tears his guard down, makes him vulnerable but okay about it.

“It’ll be a brilliant match.”

“I’d send you tickets, but I reckon they’re not very hard to come by.”

“Oh, I already booked mine. Courtside. You’ll find me by volume of my cheering.” Harry squints at him. “I can see in your mind you think I’m joking -- ” Liam does. “ -- but m’quite serious.”

Liam’s cheeks pink. Harry levels a smile at Liam and it has this way of cracking Liam open, showing Harry what’s inside.

Liam remembers cutting open a tennis ball when he was a kid, trying to get to the center of it, to know everything about the sport he loved. He hadn’t exactly imagined it would be empty. It had to be hollow -- Liam knew that on some level, to behave the way it did -- but he remembered being so surprised it was empty. He already knew everything there was to know about the tennis ball, there were no secrets.

He’s told he gets that way -- faces something unknowable and works at it until there’s nothing left he doesn’t know. That’s how he’d looked at tennis, that’s how he’d gotten himself 7th best in the world at one point. He thought if he knew everything there was to know about tennis, that would be enough to make him the best. But it wasn’t.

He looks at Harry and thinks _god, I don’t even know him_.

He’s spent all day thinking about Harry and he can’t even be sure if the smile he’s giving Liam now is any different than the polite one he gives sports presenters. He wants to know everything, he wants to know what it is about Harry that has people paying attention to him, that has people giving a damn about tennis in a way they haven’t in a long time. He wants to know why Harry’s come back, if Harry’s gonna keep coming back. He wants to know how Harry does what he does to Liam, because nobody does that.

He looks at Harry and thinks _I’m going to find out_.

\--

The applause sounds about as bewildered as Liam feels. He cranes his neck just to double check the score, and it appears to be real. Straight sets, 6-4 6-2 6-1. Payne defeats Gottlieb. It’s his best match in years.

His eyes flick over to where he knows Harry and Niall are sitting -- he’d clocked them during the second game of the first set, cheering as loud as Harry’d promised. Harry’s jumping up and down and Niall’s looking pleased, so Liam figures that means this is real. It’s all real. The applause isn’t just buzzing in his brain trying to psych him out. It’s meant for him.

He forgets how much you have to do once you’ve won a match, even if it is just a first round match. There’s interviews and logistics and a whirlwind of officials, and at some point, Niall takes over for Liam’s brain once he finds him and realizes Liam’s too far gone into paralysis to really be useful. He genuinely won his first match at Wimbledon in years. They’re calling his victory a _major upset_ , which Liam would be irritated about if he weren’t so dumbfounded himself.

A text message from Louis is what pulls him out of it. _Down £460 today you twat_ , it says, which is Louis’ own special way of congratulating him.

He gets cleaned up for this do at the hotel for the Round One winners. It feels self-congratulatory, really, but Liam thinks he might be in the mood to be congratulated a bit. He reckons the party would be a bit more fun if everyone wasn’t looking at him like he’d recently changed his name to Major Upset, like they won’t forgive him for keeping Gottlieb out of the party.

Harry’s in red and sticks out like a sore thumb in a sea of black suits, which Liam has never been more grateful for. He’s chatting with an older gent who looks proper charmed by Harry, and Liam’s almost inclined not to disturb them until Harry catches his eye.

“Save me,” Harry mouths, so Liam does.

Harry introduces him graciously, and his companion suddenly looks less than charmed at Liam’s intrusion. “Joseph, this is Liam Payne.”

Joseph sizes him up before he seems to place the name. “Retiring this week, aren’t you?”

Liam knows it could be this week, he knows everybody’s expecting it to be this week, so Liam doesn’t know why that sort of blunt talk twists his stomach. Harry touches Liam’s hip and that’s enough to get Liam to say gently, “As soon as Wimbledon ends for me.”

“What have you got, a presenter job lined up?” he asks in a tone that suggests he’s already dubious of the quality of Liam’s potential -- admittedly nonexistent -- job offer.

Harry turns to him, light in his eyes. “That would be brilliant, Liam, what do you think?”

“Honestly, I’d rather watch you do it,” Liam answers.

Harry quickly mimes a microphone and says, “Liam, what form of ritual public flagellation will you engage in if you lose Wimbledon?”

Liam’s eyes go wide when Harry shoves the pretend microphone so close to his face it’s probably resting right on his lips. He scrambles for a response. “I figured I’d get in one of those old timey, medieval like, wooden things? Where you put your hands and head in it and then little kids throw rotten tomatoes at you?”

He gestures an example until Harry’s nodding knowingly and saying, “You know, I think they’ve just installed one out front of Centre Court.”

“Good, sounds like you better get the tomatoes ready for Thursday.”

“Never!” Harry shouts, far louder than he should at a do like this.

Liam throws a quick look around, clocking how many people are looking right at them -- at least four -- until Harry’s tugging him away by the shoulders, giving his sincerest apologies to Joseph as they leave him behind.

Harry keeps tugging him until they sneak out the back door of the hotel, even though it’s unnecessary. But something about them pretending they’re doing something illicit has them giggling and breathless. Liam wonders if it’s the fact that it’s Harry that keeps them from being questioned, or if everyone’s just too busy to care.

Liam grins after Harry, who walks down the pavement with his back turned to the tide, without a single regard for who might run into him. “I went to this sleepaway tennis camp when I was little. This was shortly after the Foxy fiasco, for your reference.”

Liam nods. “Sure.”

“I thought it was the coolest place, like, better than Disney World. I mean, I hadn’t been to Disney World, but it was cooler than I imagined Disney World to be. And it was in the heart of London, a stone’s throw from Wimbledon.”

The way Harry’s memories seem to light his eyes in the darkness, the way Harry’s hands fly with passion, Liam can almost see his childhood enthusiasm. Liam remembers his own -- it’s about the love of the game when you’re a kid. There’s no pressure, no expectation. It’s freeing.

“That sounds marvelous,” Liam says.

“It closed a few years back, so it’s just sitting there now, no one’s done anything with it. I go there sometimes, when I’m home for a visit. Swing by and sort of hope I’ll see someone’s bought it and there are kids running around again.”

Liam clocks his intentions easily and leads, “Have you checked recently?”

Harry snaps his fingers and points at him. “Do you know what, Liam, I haven’t.”

“Will you take me?”

\--

The courts aren’t in great shape, Liam can tell through the chain link fences with the dim light the streetlamps cast, but they’re not irretrievable. New nets, fill some cracks, repainting. A tennis court should be something enticing, awe-inspiring, daring you to own it, and something twists in Liam’s stomach to see it abandoned, dilapidated.

“Liam,” Harry says from a ways away and Liam turns in time to see him shimmy his way through a thin hole in the fence, a sharp piece tugging at his sheer shirt before reluctantly snapping it free.

“You are mental,” Liam tells him, even as he’s following him.

Harry seems to regard this court with as much reverence as he regarded Centre Court, and Liam starts to as well, just with the association. Anything that makes Harry look so at peace, Liam wants to be part of it.

“This year sees the triumphant return of Harry Styles,” Liam announces, in his poshest commentator voice. “Last competing here at age fourteen, having just mastered the continental grip.” He makes an accompanying rude gesture.

Harry flips him off and says, “Actually, if you’ll remember from last night, I favor the western forehand.”

Liam remembers very well. “Controversial, but effective.”

Harry laughs and runs through some stretches and jumps, eager to play along. He skips over to the baseline and crouches low, swinging an invisible racket in his hands in preparation.

“He is met on the court today by Liam Payne, winner of the prestigious 1993 Wolverhampton Primary School Under-10s Tournament.” Liam takes his place on the other side of the court. “Your serve, mate.”

Harry exhales carefully before moving glacially slow through his serve. It has everything he was missing on the court yesterday -- from a technical standpoint, it’s perfect, and Liam feels lucky to witness it.

Liam slo-mo serves back to Harry, his most intense backhand, accompanying it with one hell of a long grunt. Harry’s eyes obviously follow the trajectory of the imaginary ball, down over the net and back up at Harry, closer and closer until his eyes go crossed. Harry’s head jerks back like he’s been struck square in the forehead. He teeters from side to side on his toes before dramatically falling over.

Liam’s heart lurches for a moment, until he realizes it’s not actually real. He still shoots around the other side of the net over to where Harry lies sprawled on the ground. Harry’s eyes are closed, his mouth pressed shut. He’s playing the part well.

Liam kneels beside him, slowly petting his hair. “Oh god, what have I done?”

“You’ve killed me,” he mumbles, trying not to move his mouth.

Liam sighs. “Well, I guess it’s up to me, then, to win Wimbledon in your honor. I better go tell everyone I’m Britain’s Best Chance now. Rest in peace, Harry.”

Harry makes an affronted noise, so Liam turns back to him. Harry puckers his lips and smacks them a little, making little popping noises until Liam swoops down to put a stop to that. The soft slide of Harry’s lips against his is enough to make up for the awkward way he’s craning his neck to get down to Harry.

Harry’s hand slides around his neck, getting a proper snog going until he’s satisfied. Liam’s okay with that, willing to give and take until Harry’s had his fill.

Liam gasps down at his open eyes. “It’s a miracle.”

“A Wimbledon miracle. My knight in shining armor,” Harry sighs. He uses Liam’s body to haul himself up, grabbing at him and tugging. Liam laughs and grunts his way through before straightening up himself.

He points at Harry, a challenge. “Fifteen-love, by the way.”

Harry shakes his head. “You play dirty.”

Liam leads them out of the tennis courts before too much longer, hesitant to be picked up for trespassing. That’d be a hell of a publicity storm -- good for that buzz Niall’s always talking about, but bad for actual business.

“You know that’s not really a thing, right?” Harry says when they’re about halfway back to the hotel.

“What’s that?”

Harry tugs at his bottom lip, a rare moment of insecurity. “Britain’s Best Chance, like. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Liam’s stomach drops. He hadn’t even thought that Harry would think he was genuinely criticizing him or anything, taking the piss because he thought Harry was overrated. “I didn’t -- I was just joking.”

“I know. I know, I just. You know.” He waves a hand like Liam should know, but Liam really doesn’t.

“Does it bother you that they call you that?” Liam asks.

Harry shrugs, something helpless in it. Liam supposes he doesn’t really have a say in it either way. People are going to say what they want to say about Harry, they’re going to call him what they like.

“It’s a lot of pressure to be the Hot New Thing, but,” Harry says. He frowns like he’s trying to find the words. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? Could be fleeting. Could end tomorrow. So you can’t put a lot of stock into it, like, the attention. Or what other people think.”

Liam looks at him and sees him cracking open, showing Liam something he can’t see from the outside.

“The last thing you want to do is think, like, you’re a fluke?” Harry continues. “An outlier they’ll discount because like one year the person they thought was going to win just had a bad day. And you got lucky.”

That tugs at him, makes him want to blabber that he thinks the world of Harry before Harry can spend another second doubting himself. Harry’s not like Liam -- Harry’s in his prime, he’s fought his long battle to get to Wimbledon, and he’ll come out on top, Liam knows it.

Liam stops him on the pavement, gets his hands on Harry’s hips. “Harry, you’re not a fluke.” He’s nearly vicious with it, like the cut in his voice can sever any of the doubt Harry’s feeling so he’s only left with the confidence he should rightfully have.

Harry wraps his hands around Liam’s face and lets a crushing sort of sincerity bleed through his voice that makes Liam feel weak at the knees. “Neither are you, Liam Payne.”

Liam has a flash of his future at Wimbledon for the first time, knowing what he’s done, what he’s capable of. He feels it suffocating him for a moment -- they’re already calling him a fluke, a major upset, someone who’s just ruined half the country’s office bracket challenge.

He doesn’t want to be a fluke either, never has. He wants to prove himself, not to the tennis community, not to the world, but just to Harry. He wants to be worthy of Harry’s faith in him.

\--

Fast and unforgiving, the first three rounds leave Liam breathless and bewildered. He smashes his next two matches, only gives up two sets between them. He’s gone so hard that the first day off leaves Liam almost motion sick. It’s like the feeling you get when you first step off a roller coaster, your head spinning from having gone from lightning fast to standing still in seconds.

Wimbledon makes him feel that way. Harry makes him feel that way.

It’s a high like Liam’s never felt before, even when he was ranked 7th in the world. He’s won matches before, he’s won whole competitions before, so the feeling of success shouldn’t be foreign to Liam. But there’s something about this Wimbledon that makes it sweeter than ever.  

They trade matches, and Liam’s never felt so grateful for his off days, so he can spend them sitting at the front row cheering Harry on.

Before Harry’s third match, against Amblin, Liam finds himself sneaking into the Court One locker room to wish Harry luck -- he’d wish Harry to play Centre Court for all his matches, but Liam doubts he’d be able to get in over there.

Usually before a match, Liam’s in something of a shambles, stretching, jogging around, hyping himself up, practicing swings, smacking a tennis ball against a wall trying to hit the same place every time. Everything he’s ever taught himself to distract himself from his impending loss.

Harry… he finds Harry seated calmly on a bench, his racket spinning and spinning easily in his large hands, his back curved in a way that makes Liam want to push his shoulders back, his hair carefully tied up and set with a sweatband. He gives Liam a lazy grin when he sees him.

“You’re -- ” Liam looks around the empty locker room. Harry could have been going through his pre-game, Harry could have needed time to himself. Liam could have fucked everything up and now his mojo is off. “Is it -- is it okay that I came? I didn’t even think to check your pre-game routine.”

“It’s fine, m’happy you came.” Harry rises, sliding his hands around Liam’s waist until they rest linked at his back. It’s an immediate shift, just that touch, and Liam’s worry drains from him.

“Yeah?” Liam barely says against the way Harry’s lips are so close to his.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees before he closes the distance. It’s a quick snog, nothing too cheeky because Harry’s got a game to play in minutes. Harry rests his chin over Liam’s shoulder, pressing them close enough that if they were swaying, they’d be dancing.

He’s the picture of serene.

“How are you not absolutely bricking it?” Liam blurts.

“I’m either ready or I’m not,” Harry says with a shrug that does a weird thing to Liam’s chest.

There’s something to that Liam doesn’t quite understand, Liam who works up until the very last second. If he’s not trying, he’s failing -- although for years, he’s been failing even though he’s been trying. “How do you do that?”

Harry shifts back to look at him. “It’s like cramming for a test five minutes before the test? You’re not really going to retain anything, so there’s not much point. You either know what you’re doing or you’re not. You’re either ready or you’re not.”

“That’s -- very zen, Harry.”

A crease works its way between Harry’s brows. “It helps. It’s… one of the only things that help.”

The door opens after a knock, an official wrapping his head around, about to say something until he stops at the sight of them. Liam tries to step away, but Harry’s hold firms in an instant. “They’re, um.” His jaw works for a moment, his eyes flicking until they find some place to land that isn’t them. “They’re ready for you. Mr., uh, Styles.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, even though the official’s already gone.

Liam should think of something to say, quick, wondering what trouble Harry’s got that he needs help with, but Harry shifts away, grabs his racket, his bag. He’s in game mode now, and Liam respects that.

Harry opens the door for him. “You’re gonna watch?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Good, I’ve -- there haven’t really been -- ” Harry laughs and shakes his head, biting at his lip before he finally gets it out. “There’s never really been someone watching before. Besides, like, my mum, family, y’know. It’s, um. It’s good. Thank you.”

He goes left to where the official’s waiting for him, Liam drifts right toward the stand. _Say something say something say something_ , Liam tells himself until he finally does.

“You’ll smash it,” Liam calls after him, and Harry waves back at him with a brilliant grin.

Technically Harry does smash it. It’s an honor to watch him, confident even in his missteps, undeterred well into his fifth set, stoically securing his win. He looks untouchable. He’s nothing like Liam, not really. But Liam tries to take a page from his book.

When the pressure starts to crush Liam, the weight of the competition sits heavy like boulders on his chest, he’s just got to look over at Harry and it lifts. The buzzing in his head dissipates and he’s clear. He sees the win laid out before him, like Harry’s standing at the end of the game waiting for him, and he goes for it. His legs move like they haven’t in years, twitching into action like it’s second nature. The ball always finds its mark, never strays.

It’s like magic. It’s because of Harry.

\--

Liam forgets how to leave room between the two of them, off the courts they attract like magnets, attached at the hip. Niall’s starting to get confused whenever Liam shows up somewhere without Harry. Liam tries to laugh it off, but honestly he feels the same.

It hurts to pry the two of them apart on Sunday, so they can spend their days with their families.

Liam manages a few hours with his mum crying -- about his success, about his retirement, Liam’s not sure -- now that she’s come down from Wolves with his dad and sisters in tow. Now that he seems like he’s actually getting somewhere. He’d hate for them to have come all the way back down only for Liam to lose his next match, but he figures maybe they’re used to it.

Then he escapes back to Louis’ flat, the one place in London completely Wimbledon-free. The only thing Louis mentions the whole day is an offhand comment looking in his wallet before forcing Liam to pay for both of their dinners.

“Not making as much off him as I thought I would,” Louis says regretfully.

Harry’s performance has been… less than ideal. For Harry and the thousands of people watching him with intense scrutiny, each of his matches going five sets, each victory the product of a desperate struggle.

They’ve been cruel to him on the shows, calling him out for being a rising star and choking when he makes it big. It’s ridiculous is what it is, because he isn’t even _losing_. He’s sloppy but he’s winning, granted most days not by much. They expect too much of him. Liam knows that, he sees it in the set of Harry’s shoulders. He can tell in the falseness of Harry’s interview smile.

Liam’s not sure what to do with it, hope Harry’s family can ease some of the weight if Liam can’t.

He unearths his phone from his pocket to send him a quick message to secure dinner tomorrow after Harry’s match. He’s greeted with a picture from Harry first, a soft one with his mum and sister, the relaxed smile already miles better than the one he saw on telly this morning. Liam saves it.

 _Might have been going after the wrong Styles_ , he types out in response.

 _That’s not funny_ , Harry responds quickly. _About both of them._

Liam grins. _Dinner after your match tomorrow?_

He watches the bubble pop up and disappear and pop up a few times and his grin fades.

“If you’re sexting your boy instead of talking to me, Payno, I swear to god.”

“I’m not! Honestly. Sorry.” Liam pockets his phone quickly, just as it chimes Harry’s response. It’s a testament to his friendship with Louis that he doesn’t dig it back out. “Just making plans for tomorrow night. Dinner and all.”

Louis leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. There’s something incredulous in his voice when he says, “Shag first, date second? Unconventional, but I like it.”

“Me too,” Liam admits.

“Where are you now, like, the awkward I’m not sure if I should hold his hand phase?”

Liam frowns. “We sort of skipped over that bit.”

There’s something admittedly expedited about the whole thing, which Liam figures is all Harry. There’s something enviably direct about Harry, how he’d just seemed to decide he wanted Liam and then went out and got him. Liam reckons he was rather easy, wonders if he should have played a little harder to get for half a second before he tosses that thought.

“What bit are you on?” Louis asks.

“Harry’s like -- he has this way of making me feel so much and making me feel nothing at all? It’s like everything is brighter with him, more intense, but it’s also easy. It’s so easy it doesn’t feel like work.”

Louis crooks an eyebrow at him. “Honeymoon period.”

“I mean, maybe?” Liam shrugs, poking at the remnants of his salad like they might hold some sort of clarity. “But he just takes me out of my head, and like, nothing seems scary anymore. Wimbledon, retirement, any of it.”

“He makes you feel safe?”

“Yeah.” Liam nods, more sure of it the longer he thinks of it. “Yeah, he does.”

When he looks up at Louis, Louis looks considering, downright pensive. It looks rather foreign on his face, almost like he’s threatening to be sincere. That’s not what Liam goes to Louis for, and he’s honestly a bit wary of what it means.

“That’s not like you, mate, like when you’re in Competition Mode, it’s like. You don’t have time for anyone else.”

Liam thinks he’s detecting a slight tone of resentment in Louis’ voice, something like jealousy in it. He’s torn between taking the piss and being indignant. A competitor is supposed to eliminate all distractions. They’re meant to have the game be all that matters. Ultimate focus is the key to success.

So he thought, really. Louis’ right -- he’s never let someone in the way Harry has, he’s always cut everyone but Jarvis and Niall off, and even then, it’s just been for official business he talks to them. He’s let Harry fill him up, become so tangled Liam’s not sure he’d be able to separate them. He’s a safe place, like Niall told him to find.

Christ, it’s only been a week.

Liam picks taking the piss, for his own sanity. “Are you saying you miss me?”

Louis quirks a judgmental eyebrow. “Did I say that?”

“I reckon you didn’t.”

“I’m just saying. Competition Liam was never very fun. Not compared to Off Season Liam. It’s nice, you being less intense about it.”

“I’m fun,” Liam argues, his face scrunching with indignation.

Louis widens his eyes, mocking him. “Okay, Liam, you’re fun.”

“Competition’s competition, like, you have to be focused on the game, that’s like critical or you lose.” That’s what he’s been taught since he was a kid, it’s what he’s done in order to win. Or, in recent years, what he’s done despite losing.

Liam’s phone chimes again, and his fingers itch to reach for it.

“Look, mate, apparently not.”

He's not wrong, is the thing. Liam’s spent more time with Harry in this competition than he has with anyone in any competition. It's been a necessity, second nature, he's never stopped to challenge it.

It has to be Harry, it all comes down to him. Nothing else has changed, not Liam's diet or routine or training regimen. It all comes down to Harry.

\--

Liam has never become numb to winning. He thinks that might be the death of an athlete, when someone becomes so accustomed to being the best that they can’t feel the exhilaration of victory. It leaves him wired and tired down to his bones at once, like he could turn around and take on the world but also get a good twelve-hour nap in.

He's grateful Harry always played the day before him, so there was nothing Liam did that Harry hadn't already done. But tomorrow's the quarterfinals -- his mind spins, the fucking quarterfinals -- and for the first time they'll have to miss each other’s matches. They’ve gone four rounds of support, and Liam’s bricking at the thought of not having Harry in the audience. He doesn’t even like when Harry is in the other room.

Harry’s showering away the sweat of the training session and Liam lounges in bed, eager to spend a long and quiet night in, living that rock star tennis player life. He only turns to the telly when they mention Wimbledon.

“Current frontrunner Lukas Porobic will likely meet Styles in the semi-finals for the top half, unfortunately, but wouldn’t that be quite the final? Let’s take a look at the match-ups we’ve got for the quarterfinals tomorrow afternoon.”

“Results overall are pretty much as expected, with a single exception. With a career-defining winning streak, a wild card in the quarterfinals. Whatever’s in British player Liam Payne’s water, we need some of it.”

“Harry Styles could use some of it, too, you’d think it’d have rubbed off by now, the amount of time the pair have spent together the past week and a half.”

They flip through picture after picture of the two of them at each other’s matches, throwing in a couple of pap pictures from lunches and dinners, and Liam feels sick.

He supposes it’s always been there, that feeling that inches up behind it all comes down to Harry. It's all because of Harry. He's only winning because Harry. And now Harry's barely scraping by, so they say, a shadow of his performance at the French Open. Because of Liam.

“What are you trying to say, he’s stolen Styles’ mojo?”

“I’m saying it certainly doesn’t hurt to scope out the competition, adding Britain’s Best Chance to his collection alongside Ireland’s Favorite Son, Niall Horan, his agent of three years.”

Liam blinks dumbly, unable to even comprehend that.

The TV clicks off and Liam turns around to see Harry, fresh out of his shower with a towel around his hips and the remote in his hands. He’s got a look on his face that Liam doesn’t understand.

“Scoping out the competition, Payne?” he asks, his voice a devastating sort of low and quiet.

“No, Harry, it’s not – ” he starts, but Harry’s moving, slides easily onto Liam’s lap.

Harry kisses him deep before beginning an assault on his neck, mumbling, “And how do you find the competition?”

“Formidable,” Liam gasps, with the smallest bit of relief that Harry isn’t mad. “Fierce – ahh, fuck.”

Harry looks up and gives Liam a cheeky grin. His hair’s sitting wet and tangled around his face, looking like he did the first time they did this. It feels like a lifetime ago. “My three favorite F’s.”

They’re okay, but the worry sits heavy on Liam’s shoulders. The idea, once implanted in his brain, starts to take root. What if he’s ruining Harry’s game? Sucking out Harry’s mojo like he’s Austin bloody Powers -- where Harry helps focus Liam, Liam’s only taking Harry’s focus away.

He’s not a bloody saboteur, he just likes Harry. Liam likes him for so much more than his tennis game. “I like you,” Liam tells him.

Harry breathes out a mocking sigh. “That's a relief. Otherwise this would be super awkward.”

“Do you think -- ”

Harry kisses the question off his lips, pulling back only enough to say, “Be present. Be in this room, nowhere else.”

Liam nods, twists so Harry lands on his back, a surprised laugh leaving his lips, delight finding his eyes. That’s what Liam wanted from him, if he couldn’t have anything else.

\--

The audience is electric in a way Liam recognizes. It's like they're preparing to watch Harry play, but Liam realizes slowly it's not for Harry or for his opponent. It's for Liam.

He nearly laughs, waving at a few people who shout back at him as he scans the audience. He’s in Court One for the first time _ever_ in his Wimbledon history. One step closer to Centre Court.

He sees Niall seated close, and the fact that he’s alone shakes Liam a little harder than it should. The few moments of exhilaration he had is replaced by a trickling sense of anxiety, that old superstitious fear of the athlete. His good luck charm is missing.

Liam falls apart quickly. The match is brutal. Culpa is incredible. Liam scrambles to keep up with him.

He loses the first two sets, the sounds of invisible commentators ringing in his ears, confirming the choke they’ve all been waiting on. He doesn’t want to disappoint anyone, feels every gasp or wince of the audience viscerally, and it cuts him deeper than any other has before. He looks over to Niall just after he towels his face. Niall flashes a two with one hand and shakes his head, a grim expression on his face. Two sets against Harry as well.

Liam won’t lose today, like he knows Harry won’t lose. They’ll race each other all the way to the semi-finals, he knows it. Anything to keep this thing they have between them going, anything to keep from shattering the bubble they’ve put themselves in.

He double faults his next serve, pacing, shaking it off, and gets ahold of himself. Liam breathes deliberately, in through his nose, out through his mouth, like Niall says, and gets back to work.

He powers through, rallies his way into the fifth set. He won’t make this his last match. Not today. He knows the end is soon, but it’s not today.

He’s finally up where he needs to be, like it’s a hard-fought battle to match point and not just a bloody game of tennis. Liam sends the ball rocketing over to Culpa, and it feels like the entire audience holds its breath with Liam to see where it hits.

There’s a lifetime between the ball touching the ground and the final call -- Liam’s seen it, it was out of bounds, and it crushes him. He’s not sure he can take much more of this, too exhausted, too anxious. The world slows around him and his blood pumps in his ears and he thinks -- this is it. He’s had a good run, but history’s corrected itself. The major upset has been majorly upsetting. Liam’s not sure if he feels crushingly devastated or crushingly relieved.

The world speeds up again, like hyperdrive, the second they rule it in, and the match point goes to Liam. They’re announcing it and Culpa’s smiling and waving to the audience in gratitude and Liam is still paralyzed on his side of the court, staring at the line, at the ball as it bounces until a BBG collects it. He’s waiting for them to change their mind.

He lets himself get numbly pulled through a number of handshakes and interviews, reaching for Niall when he finds Liam, pulling him close so Niall can say in his ear, “Harry won.”

After that, Liam has something of a singular focus, a familiar one that overtakes him completely. Every person he meets stands between him and Harry, between the one source of light, the one person who’ll keep him safe from the rest of it, who quiets the buzzing in his ears.

He doesn’t get to see Harry until some ridiculous function that evening, reserved for the semi-finalists across the board and anyone rich enough to solicit their time. Sometimes Liam swears he spends more time schmoozing than he does playing tennis these days, but he does whatever Niall tells him to. And he knows Harry’s going to be there.

Harry stands at a window, looks absent, a thousand-yard stare blanking out any of the emotion on his face that Liam likes so well. Liam sees the weight of the competition, the weight of his performance, the weight of what everyone else says about him, all of that dragging him down.

Liam goes to him, gets a hand curled around his waist and murmurs his hello.

Harry turns to look at him, his face glacially spreading into a familiar smile like it’s difficult to find it, but he’s determined to. He leans in for a moment like he’s going to kiss Liam, and Liam wishes he would for a moment until he remembers what they’d say. Saboteur. Liam leans and pulls Harry into a hug instead, digging his face into Harry’s neck. Harry’s hands are slow to find his back, but they do.

He pulls away quicker than Liam would like to ask, “How was it?”

“Rough, but.” Liam shrugs. Honestly no different than Harry’s been playing all of Wimbledon, it pains him to realize, so he doesn’t exactly want to complain about it. The fact is, he still won, he won and he’s moving onto the bloody _semi-finals_ , he just. Doesn’t feel like he deserves it.

Who is he to have made it this far, a wild card seeded at 125? Taking advantage of other people’s bad days, getting through on what feels like a technicality.

“But you made it.”

“You made it,” Liam says, squeezing his hip and passing him a smile.

Harry hums and turns around, keeping at least some part of himself pressed to Liam as Liam’s hand falls away at the movement. Liam pretends like he’s okay with that, okay that Harry doesn’t want to get into it. That’s what they do, that’s what Liam’s sought him out for. Safe, no tennis talk, just being with each other.

“Significantly less people in here tonight,” Harry says. “I think they’ll realize if we sneak out.”

“Surely they wouldn’t miss two of us.”

Liam’s quickly proven wrong as they’re pulled away, clamored for, circling each other for hours as they get talked at and talked to, Very Important People wanting to be seen rubbing elbows with a few of the best athletes at Wimbledon.

He looks over to see Harry talking to a young lady, who watches him mesmerized like maybe he’s telling her the secrets of life, when in reality, Liam knows it might just be an anecdote about champagne being called champagne because of where it’s from in France, or something. Liam recognizes her quickly, Cassidy Freeman, the girl Harry himself had dubbed Britain’s Best Chance. Liam’s happy to see her here, having made it to her own semi-final.

Maybe they’ll both win, Harry and Cassidy, a coup for Queen and Country. It’s hinted at often enough to Liam by the masses of strangers, and Liam can’t help but agree, even if it means decrying his own chances at victory. He’d love to see Harry have the world.

They migrate back to each other after an hour of being pulled in each other's orbit, circling and circling until they can collide.

Gently collide, that is, as Harry leans into his side and says, something of a non-sequitur, but most things with Harry seem to be, “We owe all our careers to Major Walter Clopton Wingfield.”

Liam grins, happy to play along, so long as it’s any conversation that doesn’t start and end with his retirement. “Who’s that?”

“The inventor of lawn tennis.”

“You’re having me on,” Liam says with a laugh.

Harry looks affronted. “I am not.”

“His name is not Major Walter Clopton Wingfield.”

“Google it,” Harry challenges. “Old Cloppy Wingfield, our lord and savior.”

“His wife called him Cloppy,” Liam guesses.

“Of course,” Harry says easily. “Can you imagine if you invented tennis. You’d be Major Payne.”

Liam squints at him, he’s -- well, he’s just not sure that’s how it works. “Major Upset, more like,” Liam retorts, but it sours in his mouth, doesn’t feel like much of a joke.

“Major Babe,” Harry corrects with a salute with one hand and a rather scandalous grope of his arse with the other.

Liam snorts and jerks away. “God, let’s get out of here.”

Liam vaguely remembers a time when he thought this sort of thing was exhilarating. When the entire world wanted a piece of you, and you tried your best to divvy it out, because the attention was addicting.

There’s some level of selfishness to it, surely. They all want their moment in the spotlight, they want the adoration of strangers. Otherwise they’d not have become professional athletes, Liam would have just played tennis on the weekends for a bit of exercise.

But the longer he’s in it, the older he seems to get, his priorities shift. It starts to mean less, the attention, and that’s just for Liam, who’s never quite faced the scrutiny someone like Harry has, who’s never quite played well enough to stand the test of time.

He doesn’t even get the worst of it, and he’s exhausted. The game starts to become a chore instead of a passion, and Harry’s the one pulling him through the fortnight like he’s pulling him through the crowded ballroom.

They’re nearly make it to the door, barely steps away from freedom.

“All right, lads?” Niall says, cutting in front of them smoothly. He’s grinning innocently, but Liam knows better. Niall spins his finger at them.

Liam sighs at him and Harry mimics him, but somehow extra put upon. They turn together back toward the party, determined, if they’re going to go at this, they’ll not be separated.

\--

They spend their off day before the semifinals at the shops, and Liam loves it. It’s absurdly normal, practically domestic. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend like this is just their lives together, popping in and out of shops, debating what to get Harry’s mum for her birthday.

It could be Liam’s life, soon enough, retired before he’s a pensioner, to do whatever he wants. Until he gets a real job, that is, that’s what Louis tends to call it. Liam’s finally retiring so he can get a real job.

“What do you think about teaching?”

Harry hums and traces a mindless pattern on Liam’s lower back. “The next generation of Liam Paynes.”

“The next generation of Harry Styleses, really.” Liam stops to look in the window of a tourist trap, London-themed garbage everywhere, some of it Wimbledon themed. Liam bets if he looks hard enough, he could probably find something in there with Harry’s face on it. “Britain’s Best Chance. My favorite tennis player.”

“Your favorite,” Harry mumbles, his hand stilling on Liam’s back. It could be the heat, but Harry’s cheeks look like they’re pinking up.

“Definitely my pick to go all the way,” Liam says firmly. “You're going to be brilliant tomorrow.”

Harry winces. “Don't -- don't tell me that.”

“Why not?”

Harry’s eyebrows furrow, his face souring in a way Liam’s never seen from him, not when he usually looks so easy, unaffected. “Everyone says that, they all tell me that, that I'm brilliant -- it just doesn't feel real anymore.”

It must be nice to have the unconditional support of a nation, Liam thinks. People aren't necessarily _mad_ at him anymore, the reaction he got yesterday was honestly quite nice. Nothing really like it. But it didn’t feel real either. Even then Harry’s on another level.

“Sort of feels like I’ve gotta get it all figured out, like,” Harry adds. “Can’t learn anything, can’t make any mistakes.”

Liam hadn’t thought about that. Harry’s got the weight of the nation on his shoulders, curving his back until he’s slouched over. If he lets them down, even once, they’ll crush him and move on. Liam wants to help share the weight.

“I’m sorry,” Liam says.

Harry’s face pinches again, and Liam can’t figure out what he’s done wrong now. “Don’t be -- I shouldn’t have said. You’re just. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. You’re a good person, Liam Payne.”

He doesn’t like that, that Harry thinks he shouldn’t have said. He wants Harry to say these things to him, if he feels them. God knows Liam does his fair share of sharing. “I only said so because I meant it.”

Harry snorts. “You mean you’re not just trying to get in my pants?”

“Nah, been there done that, you know what I mean?” Liam squeezes his waist, grins over at him. “Actually, I can’t even lie. Ten out of ten, would do again.”

Harry swats at him, honking that absurd laugh of his.

Liam doesn’t know how to be anything but genuine about it, even framed like a joke. He doesn’t know how he’d admit to anyone that the first thing he thinks of when he gets up in the morning is Harry, how much he wants to see him, touch him, talk to him. It’s absurd, Liam reckons, a bit like Harry’s laugh, a bit of a whirlwind. But there’s never been a moment of doubt, there’s never been anything like this for Liam.

“I do, though,” Harry says, some ten minutes later, unprompted by Liam’s count, because there’s nothing remarkable about the row of watches they’re looking at.

“Hm?”

“I think you would be a brilliant teacher.”

Liam feels his face flush, he’d forgotten all about that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, you’re entertaining, which is honestly half of teaching right there,” Harry jokes, but then it gets real. “You’re patient and generous. Great with kids.”

“How do you know I’m great with kids?”

“I went to the UNICEF thing a few years ago with Andy Murray. They were following you around like ducklings.”

Liam startles -- they could have met before? Liam’s admittedly a little focused, even when it comes to charity matches, but he can’t imagine having missed Harry entirely. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Nobody knew I was there. Hadn’t won the French Open yet, had I?” There’s something rueful about his smile. Harry had to have been playing for years, had to have won any number of matches, and Liam’s somehow completely missed the boat. He’d started paying attention to Harry when everyone else did.

God, he’s no better than the rest of them.

“We didn’t -- we didn’t meet, did we?”

Harry gives him this coy look, says, “Oh, Liam. You’d have remembered.”

Liam looks at him long and hard, and he agrees. Once you notice him, you don’t forget someone like Harry. It’s an odd thought, though, that Harry’s not managed to forget who Liam is, even after all this time, even though he’d said last week he’d seen some of Liam’s matches.

“You’d really trust me with the future of tennis in Britain?”

“I’d trust you with anything.” Harry leans over and presses a kiss to Liam’s cheek.

He’s something incredible, Harry is. Liam thinks he’ll never stop being in awe of him.

When Harry strides off for the loo an hour later, Liam ducks into the store he’d spied a few minutes ago, goes straight up to the first person he can find working there instead of cruising the aisles. They look at him a little strangely with his very specific request, but he finds what he’s looking for quickly. They’ve only got one in the whole store, and Liam buys it instantly.

He sneaks back out to the bench they’d separated at, his bag wrapped in his hands behind his back, and waits for Harry to find him again.

“What’s that look mean?” Harry asks, frowning at what must be the utterly pleased grin Liam can’t seem to wipe off his face.

It’s something they share, it’s something only Liam can give him. It’s more than compliments, it’s more than support, it’s what connected them. It’s only a small drop of what Liam plans to give him in payment for all that Harry’s given him.

He presents Harry with the stuffed fox, watches Harry’s face shift into something soft and awestruck.

Liam looks down at the fox, then at Harry, then back at the fox. It’s red, made of felt, something of a cheeky grin on its face. It looks absolutely tiny in Harry’s large hands, and Harry holds it like it’s something precious.

“I didn’t know what it looked like, the original,” Liam says, “but I figured that one looks pretty foxy, don’t you think?”

Harry kisses him, strong and sure, in the middle of the promenade. He’s something incredible.

\--

Liam wakes with a start, the same way he used to when he was a kid and perpetually worried he’d overslept for school. His heart pounds double time, and his hand shifts to rub over his chest, for whatever good it does. He looks over at the clock. The anxiety is good for something at least.

He thinks he can hear it in his dreams, fading slowly into reality, the rhythmic _clop clop clop_ of the ball back and forth over the court, like the ticking of a clock that counts down to his inevitable retirement. It’s a wonder he ever sleeps.

Harry makes a sleepy noise next to him, his nose scrunching at the movement. Liam waits for his heart to settle, for Harry’s magic to start working on him, but it doesn’t.

“Babe, I’ve got a meeting with Niall in twenty minutes,” Liam whispers.

“Mm, nmnmuh,” Harry argues from where he’s rolled his face into Liam’s shoulder, pressing little kisses there. He snuggles into Liam’s chest, pressing his ear right over Liam’s heart. Just as Liam’s thinking there’s no chance he doesn’t feel how fast it’s racing, Harry says, “Listen to that heart go.”

“Big day,” Liam answers, which doesn’t fully get to the crux of it.

Harry does anyway. “You’re nervous. That’s okay.” He tilts his head so he can kiss over Liam’s heart a few times. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Liam’s eyes flick up to the ceiling as he considers the possibilities. “Ummm. I lose. International professional embarrassment. I could hit someone. Again. I hit someone once, their face turned purple and I broke a bone in their cheek -- ”

“Stop,” Harry says, his giant hand stretching up to cover Liam’s mouth and then some. “What’s the use of worrying about all these things that might never happen?”

Liam mumbles something through Harry’s hand, somewhere in the vein of _I need to be prepared_ , but Harry doesn't let go so he doesn't hear it.

“You’re either ready or you’re not. And you are.” Harry moves his hand and replaces it quickly with his lips.

He’s so calm, Harry’s always so calm. There’s gotta be something bubbling under the surface, some amount of tension, some amount of frustration, some amount of ambition that drives him, that keeps him hungry to do the best. All athletes have it.

Liam wonders what’ll happen if Harry loses. If it’ll all fall apart at the seams, if everything Harry doesn’t tell him will come spilling out. Liam hopes he never has to find out, for Harry’s sake.

Harry’s hand traces down his chest and Liam knows where it’s going. Maybe he should stop it this time -- maybe he should ask Harry how he deals with the pressure, maybe he should get a few tips in, even if he’s this close to the end of his career. Because this is all that does it for Liam sometimes, the feeling of Harry against his body, the whisper of Harry’s voice in his ear -- there has to be more than this.

Then his hand finds its way down to cup Liam. And there’s the magic there, his rhythmic ministrations leaking the stress out. Among other things.

“Gonna. Be late,” Liam says, but he doesn’t fight it. His eyes slide shut and he lets Harry have whatever he wants, gives Harry whatever he wants back. It’s all his anyway.

He’s late. It’s less a walk of shame and more of a run of no shame at all from Harry’s room up the three floors to his own room, his bare feet thumping on the carpet along the way, probably waking everyone he passes. His promise to Harry still buzzes his lips. He’ll try to win today.

Niall’s sitting on his made, untouched bed, not even bothering to turn his eyes from the telly as he says, “Honestly, I was a bit afraid to come in, because I didn’t know what I’d see. Imagine my complete lack of surprise to find you weren’t even _here_.”

“Sorry, sorry, Harry -- ”

Niall holds up a hand. “Take a shower, I can’t talk to you when you look like sex.”

“You aren’t even looking,” Liam argues, offended.

“Am I wrong though?”

He’s not wrong, so Liam showers. Alone, with nothing but his thoughts and his long-neck loofah, the anxiety creeps back in. It’s the semi-finals, he’s in the bloody _semi-finals_ of Wimbledon. He’s never made it this far, not even when he was World Number 7.

It occurs to him then, like a realization that rocks his whole person, that if they both win today, they’d face each other in the finals. They’d go toe to toe for the first time on the court, and Liam has no idea what that game will look like.

It doesn’t matter, really, because it’s practically impossible.

Well toweled up, Liam picks his way across the room, dresses quickly out of his case -- at this point, still too scared to unpack it. He’s not pushing his luck. The talking heads still squawk in front of him, like white noise behind all of the insane things running through his head Liam’s trying to ignore.

What happens if he wins, what happens if he gets injured, this could really be it, the last game, and then they’d all say balance was restored to the universe. The wild card, the major upset stops upsetting the game.

He wonders, for a moment, what would have happened if he’d met Harry years back. How things could have changed. How he could have done it all differently.

Liam perks up at Harry’s name on the television. “Turn that up?”

“Styles, who destroyed Porobic’s hopes of a Grand Slam earlier this year at the French Open -- ” The screen goes black and there’s an objection on the tip of his tongue.

“No television,” Niall says as he tosses the remote up by the pillows.

“Niall -- ”

“You know everything you need to know about Anderson, you’ve played him four times before. And there’s _definitely_ nothing you don’t know about Harry Styles. No telly, no phone, no internet. Just focus on you.”

Liam sighs, but Niall knows best, he supposes, he’s hired him to know best. He sits next to Niall to lace up his shoes and an easy arm finds its way around his back.

“Let me talk to you about Adidas,” Niall says.

“What about Adidas?”

“They’ve approached me with a sponsorship.” There must be something on Liam’s face that prompts him to add, “For you.”

Retired athletes don’t exactly... sell. Unless they’re a legend. “Are they aware I’m retiring this weekend, or?”

“You don’t have to.” He pats at Liam’s side. “I’m saying, you’re absolutely on fire, Payno. This is everything I’ve ever wanted for you.”

He appreciates that, that Niall’s on his side after all of it, through all of it. He’s suffered Liam’s lows, and he probably wouldn’t mind suffering through a high or two. But they wouldn’t want him, not if he doesn’t win Wimbledon. He doesn’t want to be a person of the moment, only to have it taken away from him. He remembers what that feels like, too well.

He’d rather not be in the moment at all.

“I’m -- I’m grateful you took me on and all, Niall, I’ll never be able to repay you for that.”

“I mean, you do pay me, so. That’s about enough,” Niall jokes. It’s an out. Liam doesn’t have the heart to tell him no, and he doesn’t have to. “I won’t push it if it’s not what you want. But Adidas is on the table either way, at least for the next year.”

It’s an honor either way, for them to have even thought of him. Adidas never takes tennis players, almost never, with the exception -- Liam frowns. “Doesn’t -- Adidas sponsors Harry, don’t they?”

“For now,” Niall says, but he sounds sorry to have done so.

Something ugly rears in him, something approaching disgust at the thought he could take anything from Harry, especially something Liam doesn’t deserve. “I don’t -- I don’t want it.”

“Liam,” Niall says patiently. Liam doesn’t care.

“Tell them thanks, but no thanks. I’m not taking Harry’s sponsorship.”

“They’ll drop him if they want, whether you say yes or not.”

“Then stop them,” Liam snaps, dislodging Niall’s arm as he rises from the bed. “It’s -- honestly, it’s fucking bullshit. He’s won every single one of his games and they’re treating him like he’s dumped out after the first round.”

“I know, mate, I know. They want to follow the story. Everyone wants the story.”

Liam smarts, thinking of good publicity and bad publicity. How all Liam knew about Harry before Wimbledon were the scandals, the sensational things that keep him in the news. They spend more time talking about who he’s hanging out with than they do analyzing his effortless command of the court.

“Then fix his,” Liam demands.

Niall says he wants to work with Harry, Niall’s done everything in his power to keep Liam from fading into nothing, Niall got him a wild card spot in Wimbledon. Liam’s got one foot out the door, so he can only imagine what Niall would do with Harry, who’s just got one foot in.

“I’ve gotta -- I’m gonna go for a run in the gym,” Liam says, waits ‘til Niall says, “Yeah, okay,” before he does.

He runs until his heart pounds and his hands are shaking from adrenaline and not from fear. He keeps his mind focused on his promise -- Harry asked him to win today, he promised Harry he’d win today. Harry promised him the same.

Liam texts him a long stream of well-wishes on his way to the locker room at Court One, one-thumbed as he’s walking, so it’s not the best, spelling-wise, but the intention is there. He’s thinking of Harry, wants the best for Harry, was happy to wake up next to Harry, was _quite_ happy with how he woke up with Harry. He’s just got to focus on that, on Harry on the way he makes Liam feel invincible.

Harry responds with a picture of his own hand, folded in a thumbs up, his new fox in the background on the locker room bench, followed by a simple _xx_. It’s exactly what Liam needs.

\--

The flashing lights are blinding, but Liam’s in too much of a daze to realize he’ll have spots dancing in front of his eyes for the next hour. Nothing can distract from the fact that was his best match in Wimbledon, his best match in six years _._ He’s going to the _finals_ , there’s one more game left in his career. He never thought --

“I never fucking thought,” Liam tells Niall as he’s ushered down a hallway into his press conference.

“You should probably start thinking, Leemo. It’s happening.” He claps Liam on the back, a fond grin on his face. “It’s the best fucking feeling in the world, trust me.”

Liam had forgotten Niall’s gotten this far himself before. He shouldn’t start thinking because he’s retiring after Saturday, he doesn’t get to be on top of the world again. He doesn’t feel exhilarated anymore, just -- guilty. He’s with Ireland’s favorite son, forcibly removed from tennis before his prime from a stupid bloody injury, and Liam’s just retiring because he’s _tired_ , tired of always being on the move, tired of losing, tired of being a disappointment.

Only these days he’s a disappointment of a different kind, succeeding to spite everyone. All the way to the finals of Wimbledon.

Out of spite, that’s what Louis’d said yesterday, one of the only things he’d allowed himself to say about tennis. Liam should succeed to spite the rest of them, every single person who said he couldn’t do it. But he can’t quite make that jump --

“Do you -- honestly, do you think I’m being selfish?”

“No, you just won,” Niall laughs. “That’s, like, a fact, mate.”

“No, I mean -- retiring?”

“I meant what I said earlier.”

“But I’m fine, I could keep playing -- I’m not.” Liam hesitates. “Old. Or injured, like.”

He can tell the moment Niall gets it, because he stops in his tracks, pulls Liam to a stop too. “You don’t worry about me, now, I’m right where I want to be. Don’t you ever apologize for going after what you want, just because other people don’t have it. I’ve had my time. This is your time. And you’re gonna retire and let the next person have their time. If that’s what you want.”

The next generation of Harry Styleses. “That’s what I want.”

Niall claps him on the shoulder, firmly. “It’s the circle of life.”

“Okay.”

“It moves us all.”

Liam gives him a bland look. “Very funny.”

“Through despair and hope,” Niall croons, his voice echoing through the corridor.

Liam spins on his heel and takes off, shouting behind him, “Sorry, I’ve got a press conference now,” as Niall keeps singing what might be the wrong words.

He settles into the chair they’ve got for him, waits until Niall settles into his position in Liam’s sightline as he normally does. The flashing starts up again and Liam tries to remember what he’s been trained to do to keep himself from looking like an absolute blinking idiot in front of the cameras.

The first question -- “Liam, what will you do if you win Wimbledon?”

Liam blinks, certain there should have been a _lose_ there instead of a _win_ , but there’s not. He honestly hasn’t even considered that a possibility, the whole thing is too fresh and new. He struggles to remember what he would have said, back in the day, when he’d actively dreamt of it.

He knows Niall will kick him for it, but he says, “I dunno.”

“No plans to rescind your plans to retire?”

“Um.” Liam flicks his eyes over to Niall, who points a finger and makes a circle motion. He’s right. “Nope. Still retiring. Very much looking forward to what’s coming next. The future of tennis is very bright. I was fortunate enough to go pro at a very young age, I’ve had a brilliant time. I’m incredibly grateful to my fans, my family, the people who’ve supported me from the start. I hope I can pay it forward, you know.”

It’s the first inkling of a plan he’s felt this whole time. Not firm by any means, because he’s not at all certain how to pay it forward, but he knows he’s going to figure it out. He’s going to do it. He should -- god, the first thing he wants to do is tell Harry.

Until the next question -- “Are you going to spend the night comforting your boyfriend after his loss?”

“What?” Liam asks, not sure if he’s more confused by _boyfriend_ or by _loss_.

“The Styles/Porobic game match just ended, you’re meeting Porobic in the finals.”

Liam’s eyes flick over to Niall and Niall nods a solemn confirmation, phone in hand.

It hits him quick, a realization in the form of lightning that fries Liam up -- he’s made Harry lose.

God, he’s finally done it, he’s ruined Harry. His mouth goes dry and he’s hardly capable of getting the words out. Everything Harry’s given him, Harry’s given it at his own expense. They were right, they were all right about Liam. He’s stolen Harry’s attention, his focus, his game. His place in the finals.

“Harry -- Harry’s an incredible tennis player. It’s an honor to watch him play, and, uh. Yeah, he’s great. The future of tennis, really, and I’m sure there’s only great things to come from him.”

That starts a barrage of questions, once Liam’s acknowledged him, probably for the first time. They’ve never talked about each other, not publicly, but he knows they’re not stupid, the reporters. They’ve probably spent more time than Liam knows about gossiping about it, because it’s always about the _story_. Liam doesn’t want them to be the story.

He wants it to be about the tennis, keeps trying to change the direction back away from the sensation, but they’re relentless. _When did you start seeing him? Do you think he’ll be jealous of your win?_

Harry isn’t -- he couldn’t be jealous. It’s not his fault he’s lost, it’s _Liam’s_. It makes him snap.

“Harry Styles is a professional. He’s smashed every one of his games here. And you -- you people treat him like the second coming of Christ. That if he doesn’t somehow miraculously, illegally win his games in two sets, he’s a shit player.”

Liam can feel his face heating up, but there’s no chance he’s stopping. Not even with Niall in the corner dragging his hands down his face, looking like he wishes Liam would just shut the hell up.  

“Harry deserves better than this. You lot have made it impossible for him to succeed and to fail. Getting to the semi-finals of Wimbledon is not a failure. Trust me. I know true failure first hand.”

He looks steady at the flashing lights, the scribbling reporters, and says the truth, “I should -- it should be Harry up here. He should be here instead of me.”

He’s greeted by a silent room full of reporters for the second time in as many weeks.

\--

Harry looks tired when he opens his hotel door, his eyes heavy, his shoulders curved, like the weight has finally crushed him. He doesn’t say anything, but he does let Liam in.

Liam doesn’t know where to start, doesn’t know where Harry’s ended, how much Harry knows. “Back to the bakery then?” he jokes.

“LA, actually,” Harry says just as Liam notices his open case on the bed. Harry passes him a smile. It’s not the one he usually gives Liam. It’s an interview smile. It hurts and Liam has to look away.

He’s got the sliding door of the closet open, several drawers pulled to reveal pants and socks. He’d spread out everywhere in this room, made it look proper lived in. He had to have been so sure he was going to stay, he had to have been sure he’d go all the way to the Finals.

“I’m sorry,” Liam says, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

“What for?”

“The match.”

Harry shakes his head. “I did my best, and it wasn’t good enough. I’m the only one who’s to blame.”

“You are good enough. Harry.” Liam reaches for him, gets a hand on Harry’s arm, but there’s no warmth there. Harry doesn’t lean into him like he would, he doesn’t scoop Liam up into his arms because he’s always gotta one-up Liam.

Instead Harry looks anywhere but at Liam, his brows furrowing with something dark. “It’s not -- don’t say that. This isn’t the papers, it’s not the BBC, it’s -- this is reality. I’m not an ingenue, I’m just trying to play tennis.”

“You’d have played better, without the distraction, like the French Open. Everyone said -- ” Liam clenches his teeth for a moment, hates admitting what he’s been worried about for a week. “They say I’ve sucked all your mojo out. I think I did, I’m so sorry.”

Harry gets angry in a way Liam’s never seen. Which makes sense. They don’t really even know each other, it’s just been two weeks. “And how do you suppose you did that, sucked it out my dick?” His voice cuts, slices at Liam until he doesn’t know how to form a sentence back.

“If it wasn’t for me -- I distracted you. I’m the problem -- ” Liam stutters.

“Do you realize what that means? I haven’t got any agency, I’m not responsible for my actions. I lost today, Liam. Me. I did that, you didn’t. Don’t be selfish.”

Selfish, he’s -- been selfish. He’s taken what he’s wanted of Harry, and he’s not even sure if he’s given anything back, anything of real substance beyond his hands or his mouth. He’s given everything to Harry, rested the weight of his stress and anxiety and fear on Harry’s shoulders, along with everyone else in Great Britain, and Harry’s borne it all the same.

Harry’s pressed a smile on his face and pretended nothing was wrong this whole time. But what if it all was eating him alive underneath the surface? And Liam never asked after him, not even once.

“You didn’t steal anything from me,” Harry continues. “I don’t know what else I have to say to convince you I fucking _like you_ , Liam, more than I should. I shouldn’t have to fight two idiots in a box who don’t know shit about us for your trust.”

Harry likes him, he says that as surely as Liam’s said the same to him, but it’s not enough. If Liam’s felt doubt about that, it’s not enough. “I -- I’m sorry. I trust you. I’m.”

“It’s fine,” Harry cuts him off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have said.”

How much of what he’s feeling has Harry left off telling Liam because he thinks he shouldn’t have said? Because he doesn’t think Liam trusts him, because he doesn’t think Liam’s cared? Because Liam’s been so overly concerned with his own performance that he’s never stopped to consider what Harry needs?

Maybe it’s not the mojo, it’s not stealing Harry’s talent. It’s a matter of not being the support Harry needed, when Harry stood by him, gave Liam everything he wanted, everything he needed.

“I want you to. I want you to say things like that if you’re feeling them. If you’ve, if this whole time you’ve been upset because, like, the idiots in a box, or the magazines, or the fans, or, like, me, the things we’ve said about you. You can tell me.”

“You’re not the same as them. You never have been. You’ve been... everything good,” Harry says quietly. It’s meant to be a relief, but it doesn’t feel that way. “I just need to go back to LA, they say I’ve gotta get back. I’m -- I’ll do the next one better.”

“You did this one incredible, Harry, third place at Wimbledon isn’t anything to sniff at.” He corrects himself. “I don’t mean that like the BBC does. Third place is better than almost anyone can hope for.” It’s better than Liam would ever have hoped for, ranked 125.

Harry looks at him, his face is hard. “It’s not first.”

There’s that coldness, that curse of a losing athlete Liam had wondered if Harry was capable of. It’s been there the whole time, and all Liam’s had to do was ask after it. They’re taught to lose with grace, but they’re never taught to keep a loss from destroying them.

“You -- you won’t stay? For the final?”

“My agent has booked a redeye. I have to -- ” Harry tilts his chin up to press a kiss to Liam’s forehead, but it’s not intimate. It’s not real. He turns back to the open closet and pulls a shirt off a hanger, the one he was wearing when they met. “I’ll call you. When I’m settled.”

Liam ignores the phantom tingling where Harry’s lips have touched him, knows a brush off when he sees one. “Thank you. For everything. It’s just, I know I wouldn’t be doing this well without you.”

Nothing’s helped, not for years. Not the new diet, not the endurance training, nothing that’s been designed to get him back on his feet. Not a single inch of it has helped. It’s only been Harry. He needs Harry to know that. If there’s one thing he can leave Harry with, it’s that. Liam hasn’t been everything, _Harry_ has.

Harry’s face crumples, and it’s not because he’s moved by it. “God, Liam, I think -- the fact that you think that? I think that’s the worst part.”

Liam doesn’t understand. How could he not think that?

“I don’t want your game, I don’t want your place,” Harry says, and it’s not unkind. It’s maybe resigned. “It’s not mine. _You_ earned it. Act like it.”

Liam nods, dumbly -- nothing that’s occurring to him seems worth saying.

“Have a good game,” Harry tells the shirt in his hands. ”You’ll smash it. Yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Liam’s eyes are on anything but Harry as he backs slowly to the door, and they catch on his suitcase, on the little red fox tail sticking over the side of it, just before he lets himself out.

\--

Liam has the single worst game of his entire career. His form is completely off. He double faults every serve. He misses almost every return because he can’t spur his feet to action quick enough. His grip is a mess. He’s falling apart.

But luckily -- perhaps luckily -- it’s just a practice with Jarvis and no one’s borne witness but Niall. Niall looks at him with this odd face -- not quite pity, not quite irritation. Liam doesn’t want to decipher it anyway. He knows what he’s done.

Liam saw the match, early in the morning before his match with Jarvis. He watched the whole thing, fingers clenched into fists, as Jarvis cataloged all of the ways Porobic slaughtered Harry. Every instance of poor form from Harry, every weakness Porobic spots and takes advantage of. Harry’s too in his head, making amateur mistakes, falling apart at the seams by the fourth set.

That’s the story.

He’s meant to run the same circuit as Porobic, but his second interview of the day Liam makes the mistake of calling him Britain’s Best Chance this morning. He can’t do it, any of them. He keeps quiet, he’s not a good interview at all the entire morning. There’s no story there, no rising to the bait about Harry, nothing more than the canned responses he’s meant to give.

He’d fucked up yesterday, at the press conference after his match. He’d turned Harry into a story again. He can see them trying to play on it, a lover’s spat, jealousy turning their relationship sour, and they’ve got it all wrong. They’ve only ever wanted the best for each other.

When it’s all said and done, Liam mumbles he’s headed over to Louis’, then snaps at him when Niall starts to argue against and leaves anyway. Louis’ will be good, safe. He’ll hide out away from the rest of the cameras, interviewers, sponsors.

This is any athlete’s dream, the attention, the accolades, and Liam was more than happy to bask in it years back, when it felt genuine. Now it’s about the story, now it’s all at Harry’s expense, and Harry’s words bounce around his head every time he goes to answer a question -- _I’m just trying to play tennis_.

He feels stupid, mostly, to feel so completely out of it because Harry’s gone. And it’s not like he can tell anyone that without them saying all the things Harry said or all the other things Liam knows to be true. He met Harry two weeks ago. There’s no excuse to have his entire world shaken.

“The last unseeded champion was Goran Ivanisevic in 2001, also ranked at 125, if you can believe it,” the commentator says before Louis switches the telly off.

Liam’s getting awfully tired of that. “I was watching that.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Liam looks over at him, takes in his arms crossed over his chest, the judgmental quirk of an eyebrow. “Niall called you.”

“Yes.”

Liam groans, throwing himself off the sofa and padding over to the kitchen in search of vodka and a cranberry juice. They’re all so bloody disappointed in him, Liam doesn’t know how to take it. He can’t stop picturing it, the dark look on Harry’s face last night, the heat of Niall’s irritation as Liam stormed out of the hotel this afternoon.

And now not even Louis’ safe. Liam doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that, the sort of feeling that he’s somehow managed to disappoint Louis too. Louis’ not meant to feel that about him, Louis’ meant to be on his side.

Louis follows him, close on his heels. “What’s your glitch, Payno?”

He finds the vodka in the freezer, dependably, pours himself a healthy amount. He could use something that’ll take the edge off, something that’ll loosen him up. Maybe that’s what he’s been missing all these years. Stress relief.

The bottle nearly slips in Liam’s hand. Harry was more than that -- more than stress relief. Liam wonders if he knows that.

“Harry and I had a fight.”

“So?” Louis leans against the counter, and his arms go crossed again.

“So it’s over.”

“He finished with you?” Louis asks, looking like he’s immediately ready to go get him. Which is nice. In a way.

“Not -- not exactly.”

“Help me out here, mate, what happened?”

“He went back to LA. He left and he said he’d call me, but. It’s done. I can’t get out of my head about it.” Liam swirls his cup, a plastic souvenir from the Australian Open five years ago. Liam must have left it here. “For the best. Really. I reckon.”

“You can’t have that, you’re playing a game tomorrow.”

“Maybe I don’t want to play tomorrow,” Liam mumbles into his cup as he brings it to his lips.

Louis slaps the cup out of his hand and it goes bouncing, splattering its contents all over the floor. Liam can’t sputter for long because Louis gets right in his face. “Have you quite finished feeling sorry for yourself?”

“Um,” Liam manages before Louis pounces again.

“I let it go when you told me you were going to retire. It was what you wanted, so I didn’t push the matter. But this, Liam? This morning was a shit show. I know you can do better. You’re giving up. And you don’t fucking do that. You are Liam Payne and you don’t give up.”

“I’m not giving up,” Liam argues, but there’s something weak about it. Louis senses it.

“Aren’t you?” Louis challenges. “You started playing professional tennis at age 16. You made it. You made a career out of doing what you love. Do you know the statistics behind how many people grow up wanting to be professional athletes and how many people actually _become_ professional athletes?”

“No.”

“Well, I mean,” Louis stutters, “neither do I. But I’m going to bet the percentage is pretty fucking low.”

He’s not ungrateful, Liam knows that for sure. He’s never taken a moment of it for granted, not a moment. But there’s something about quitting gracefully while you’re behind. Retiring before you embarrass yourself, before everyone starts to gently suggest it to you before it even occurs to you.

“I’m not ungrateful,” Liam tells him.

Louis waves that off. “You’ve spent this whole competition feeling sorry for yourself. Pretending like you’re just being dragged along for the ride, one game at a time. No offense, Liam, but that’s a crock of shit. Actually? D’you know what, _full_ offense, Liam. You are a highly trained, well-respected athlete, and that is the cause of your success. Not a good fuck. Not shit performances by your opponents. Or whatever else bullshit you’ve been whinging about for a week. You did this.”

Liam clenches his jaw. Maybe he’s done it, maybe Harry’s right and Louis’ right. But Liam’s not even sure if he _wants_ it. Not at this cost. Not when he’s taken what someone else has rightly deserved. Not when he’s lost Harry.

And maybe it was the honeymoon period, but he’s not felt that way about anyone. He’s not taken to them quickly, he’s not centered his whole world around them. He’s certainly never taken a minute away from a competition to give his time to anyone. So if he’s feeling sorry for himself, _that’s_ why.

“You can’t just hide out at mine whenever you want to bury your head in the sand and forget the world,” Louis says. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Liam looks at him. “That’s exactly how it works, actually.”

“Not anymore. I don’t know who the hell this sorry sod is,” Louis says, throwing a dismissive gesture at him, “but if you see my Liam, let him know he’s welcome to sleep at my flat, so he can get up early, drink one of them nasty protein shakes, and fucking win Wimbledon tomorrow.”

Liam knows what he’s talking about. He knows what he’s doing, what he’s done. He’s tired of everyone telling him he’s got it all wrong or turning off the television or telling him what to do. They’re supposed to be on his _side_.

“What do you care?” Liam snaps. “You’ve never liked tennis. I’ve had to drag you literally kicking and screaming to every match you’ve ever been to.”

He remembers very keenly, the moaning, the sighing, the _these things I do for you, Payno, I suffer for your happiness._ It was exhausting. Eventually he just stopped asking Louis along, would rather have no one waiting for him than someone who didn’t want to be there. The only time Louis’d mentioned tennis going forward were his fucking bets.

Liam narrows his eyes. “You’re losing your primary source of income, is that what’s really got you? I won’t lose anymore, so you’ll have to find someone else’s failure to profit from.”

Louis stills. “You’re just on a roll, aren’t you. Harry and Niall and me. Three for three.”

That twists his stomach more, that guilt. He’s gone and pissed off everyone, but -- it’s not without reason. Certainly not here, not with Louis, who he’s never held accountable. “It’s a shit thing to do -- you, you bet _against_ me. Like you know I’m going to fail. I know I was never meant to turn it around. But you’re my mate. You’re supposed to lie to me and tell me it’s going to be _okay_. You’re not supposed to invest in it.”

“I’ve been trying to get you to prove me wrong,” Louis grits out.

“I guess it wasn’t very effective tactic, maybe you should have tried something different after the first couple of years didn’t seem to turn me around. Because it didn’t make me feel like I could do better. It just made me think you agreed I was shit. That I was right to give up.”

Liam lets out a long breath, hoping it’ll release some of the pressure in his chest, but it doesn’t. He presses his palms to his eyes. “I feel -- so _stupid_. I’ve let everyone down for years and years. Even at the end of it, even at the bloody finals, I just feel like a disappointment.”

He feels an arm sling around his back, Louis’ warm front bumping up against him, and it’s enough to get Liam to slide his arms around Louis’ back in return. He’s still feeling sorry for himself, he supposes, but he just needs a hug sometimes. A warm and certain presence, something solid to hang onto when he’s threatening to lose himself.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Louis says into his shoulder. “You’re not a disappointment. We’ve never been disappointed in you.”

“Everyone else has.”

Louis pulls away, his eyes squinting into judgmental slits. “Who the fuck cares about them? I matter. Nialler matters. Your family matter.”

Harry matters, not that Louis’d say it. And Harry feels the same way they do. That was the worst part, he’d said. That Liam doesn’t think as highly of himself as anyone else does.

“Thank you,” Liam says. He means it.

“Look. I’m a petty bastard, Liam. You’re not. Try to remember that, yeah?” He knocks his hand under Liam’s chin gently, and Liam keeps his chin up.

“Yeah,” Liam agrees.

“All right then. Clean this shit up,” Louis throws over his shoulder as he carefully steps around the puddle of vodka on his way out of the kitchen.

Liam soaks a flannel and kneels on the floor.

He’s been a bit of a twat maybe. The last few weeks. As much as he hates it, Louis is right. He has been feeling sorry for himself. Doubting himself every step instead of enjoying the single most incredible thing to happen to him. He’s in the finals of his country’s best competition. It doesn’t matter much how he’s done, he’s _done it_.

He’s using Louis as an excuse to be safe but not feel anything, not care about anything. He’s not like that, he’s never been like that. He cares _too much_ , but that’s part of what keeps him going, makes him want to do more, do better.

And Harry’s different from that -- he makes Liam feels so safe he’s spurred to action. Liam had felt like himself, for the first time in years. Invincible, but not just on the court.

It’s too late for that now, so he’ll focus on what he can do. Once the floor’s clean. He scrubs diligently until the only remnants is the smell of alcohol and cleaner are mixing into only slightly noxious fume. Then he pulls out his phone.

“Hey, Liam,” Niall says. He sounds tired.

“Hey. I’m. Sorry. Sorry I shouted at you this morning.”

Niall hums. “Yeah, you were being a shithead.”

That pulls a laugh out of Liam, a small one, still something contrite in it. “Bit of a mess these days.”

“We can clean it up,” Niall offers.

And Liam will.

\--

His family’s on the sidelines, all four of them. Niall’s there. Hell, even Louis’ shown up, but he seems to be glued to his phone, his feet thrown up on the wall for now until he gets yelled at by an usher.

He’s got six people there watching them, and he can’t help but think it looks empty. The whole stadium is packed to the brim because it’s _Centre bloody Court_ with wall to wall Union Jacks waving at him, and it doesn’t seem like enough.

Liam shakes himself out of that nonsense. He’s not going to let his first and only proper trip to Centre Court get soured by anything. When he closes his eyes, he can see himself hugging the wall of the Centre Court as a kid, poised and ready to perform his duty, his eyes sharp, his legs tense like they were preparing to return a serve at any moment.

He told himself he’d play Centre Court one day. And he’s finally done it.

He can hear the steady _clop clop clop_ of the ball before the match even starts, ticking, ticking at him and he knows this is it -- this is where his time runs out.

Porobic is kind, his handshake is firm, his well wishes are genuine. He’d be a fine opponent to lose to, the World Number One. He shakes that thought away too, any trace of _the final match_ from him before it threatens to send lead flowing through his veins to weigh him down.

“Proud of you, no matter what, Payno. Smash it,” Niall had said as he’d hugged Liam in the locker room some twenty minutes ago. Liam intends to.

A hush falls over the court as Porobic readies for his first serve. Then it’s a match.

It’s brutal. It’s long. They don’t slip up often, a seemingly innumerable number of minutes passing before a point is made. Liam’s going to exhaust himself, feels his legs starting to feel like jelly even in the second set. Porobic is a powerhouse, Liam knew that from the tapes he and Jarvis watched yesterday morning.

He feels like he’s going to shiver out of his skin. He knows he’s not doing his best. He’s not back where he was even earlier this year, but he knows he’s not giving his best performance. And here’s where it matters most.

He tries to not look over at the stands. The one time he did, Niall had his hands pulling at his face, stressed, his mum was crying, and Louis was on his phone, hopefully not trying to talk his way out of trouble with a bookie.

He needs to focus on Porobic, fight the fatigue from setting in far earlier than it should. When Porobic sets him up to make some of the very same mistakes Harry did in the semis, that’s all it takes. That same recognition -- Harry did this wrong. So then Liam does it wrong, his mind so bent on trying to think of anything but Harry that Harry’s all he can think about.

It’s a losing battle, but he’s hoping at least to do it gracefully.

Thunder rumbles overhead like the sky is disappointed in his performance, threatening to open and dump rain on them in punishment should Liam not do his best. And Liam’s not doing his best. So the sky opens and dumps rain on them.

They halt game play to get the roof cranking closed. Liam squints up to watch it go, rain splattering on his face, more refreshing than irritating. They fixed Centre Court for this, the miracle roof that saves the most important matches in British tennis.

He’s out of breath, recovering on the sidelines, keeping his head tilted up like maybe the rain can slap some sense into him. He doesn’t notice for quite some time that a ball girl is trying to hand him an umbrella.

“Sorry, love,” Liam says, and he pops it open. The kid shuffles away, still in the rain, standing stoically at attention. He shuffles over next to her, shifting the umbrella until it covers them both. “Are you having fun?”

She looks up at him, wide-eyed, then back out at the court. “Sir.”

“I think that’s a yes,” Liam prompts. He knows they’re not meant to be an intrusion, but they’re never an intrusion. They’re the future of tennis.

“Yes, sir,” she mumbles.

“You like tennis?”

She looks up at him again, the same sort of _you’re a bit of an idiot_ look on her face that Niall gives him sometimes. Makes sense, it’s an incredibly competitive position she’s got here, he knows. He was one. But it gets her a little less afraid of him, which was what he wanted.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’s your favorite tennis player?” Liam asks. She doesn't say anything, but her tight-lipped, guilt-ridden face says enough, gets Liam chuckling. “It’s honestly not going to offend me if you don’t say me.”

“Cassidy Freeman, sir.”

“That’s a good choice. She’s _ace_.” The stolen joke runs easily off Liam’s tongue.

She laughs, and it feels like justice served. “Who’s yours?”

Liam opens his mouth, but the _Harry Styles_ on his lips doesn’t come out. It’s not any less true today than it was yesterday, than it was a week ago. But it feels selfish to say so.

The roof grinds to a halt, the sound of it startling enough that people in the audience shout in surprise. The rain starts to come down harder, streaming into the middle of the court, making the net dance with the force of it.

“Well. That’s not good,” Liam says instead.

It isn’t good. They call an official rain delay, sending Liam off to the locker rooms to wait out the rain or whoever’s going to be brave enough to attempt to troubleshoot the roof.

It’s just his luck, honestly. He’d hoped for a swift match -- do his best, get trounced, retire, hide away forever. So of course there’s a delay.

He changes his wet shirt for a dry one, asks to be alone, doesn’t want Niall in, none of them. It’s not because he wants to sulk, or because he feels sorry for himself. That’s not what he needs.

For all the talks he’s gotten in the last forty-eight hours, for all the people out there waving their Union Jacks -- Liam’s still not good enough. He’s not all there.

There’s a particular kind of pressure to being the single hope of an entire nation to win, and he just can’t imagine what that must have been like for Harry this whole time.

“If you lose this game, I’m going to fucking lose my mind,” Harry says from behind him, like he’s been conjured just from Liam thinking about him. Liam almost doesn’t turn around. Because if Harry isn’t actually there, he doesn’t think he could take it.

But he turns around anyway, and Harry’s leaned up against a locker with his arms crossed, looking irritated. There’s something innocuous about it, though, maybe because Liam knows him, maybe because his hair is wet and dangling around his face like it was the night they met.

“Why aren’t you out there defending my honor?” Harry demands. “You’re supposed to win and you’re doing a shit job of it. If you’re going to steal my mojo, the least you should do is _use it_.”

“Don’t hold back, Harry, please, tell me more about my inadequacies as a tennis player,” Liam deadpans but he’s too fucking happy to see him.

“Well, when they told me Britain’s Best Chance was two sets down, I had roll my old bones down here.”

Liam blinks at him. There’s no chance he came back from LA this quickly. “Your agent -- ”

“I fired him. I work for Niall Horan now.”

He remembers his challenge to Niall -- _Then fix his_. Niall will. He’s going to stand by Harry, give him the support he gave Liam. In case Liam isn’t allowed to. He’s too bloody grateful, at least for that. “He’s a tough boss.”

“Yeah, but he only works with the best.”

Harry moves for him then, for the first time, swings his arms under and around Liam’s back, pulling them together swift enough that Liam loses his breath for a second.

Then Harry pulls away and slaps him on the arm. Liam frowns after him, rubbing at his bicep. He’s in the middle of the final game of his career. He’s gonna need that.

“What are you doing out there?” Harry asks and -- he’s really not going to like the answer.

“I lost it. Whatever you gave me, it’s gone.”

He doesn’t like it, his face pinching irritably again. “Did you even hear me the other night?”

“I did, just -- ” Liam presses a hand to Harry’s chest, stopping whatever objections Harry’s about to spout. “You’ve stood by me. From that first night, you knew I could do it. That saved me, Harry. You did more for me in these two weeks than most people have in my whole life. And I mean that. Everyone keeps saying that I don’t, but I do. So when you left -- that was it for me. I haven’t recovered.”

“Honestly, I think I’m doing you a disservice spelling this out for you, but. You are worthy, Liam Payne, of everything you’ve gotten. And you are worthy of more than that.”

Liam sighs. “People keep telling me that.”

“Is it going to sink in at any point, or what?”

Liam doesn’t say _or what_ , because he doesn’t want to. If he loses right now, it’s nobody’s fault but his own. It’s not Harry’s, that’s unfair to put that on him. “You’re -- you’re right. I’m either ready or I’m not. I’m good enough or I’m not.”

“And?”

“And…” It’s hard to say, difficult to get his lips to shape the words he’s said dozens of times before in his life until he forgot how to. “I’m good enough.”

“Don’t just say it because you think that’s what I want to hear.”

Liam has spent years and years trapped in his own head, torturing himself until he’s forgotten how to play the game, a shell of a tennis player, too concerned with losing to ever consider the possibility of winning. He’s pushed his body until his body pushed back, pushed his mind until it broke.

He needs Harry, because Harry’s a balm. Not because he’s taking whatever talent Harry’s had and using it as his own. But because there’s support in Harry, a fierce passion that reminds Liam of how he could be, how he used to be. Liam wants to make him proud.

That’s an altogether different drive -- he’s not playing because he doesn’t want to be a disappointment. He’s playing because he wants to make them all proud.

“No, it’s -- I think I’m good enough. I just. I needed to make it right. I think I needed to make it right with you, so I could get out of my head about it.”

“You’ve never not been right with me,” Harry says quietly as he picks at Liam’s collar, fussing with it until it’s smooth against Liam’s chest. “I’m sorry for -- Friday night. It was -- I was upset and I think I was quite rude to you.”

Liam hadn’t considered it rude, necessarily, just part of being an athlete. Part of having everything bottled up so tight inside you that at some point, it was bound to explode. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Harry pulls at his lip for a moment, thinking hard enough steam’s likely to come out of his ears. “I don’t know how to do this, like, share it with someone else? There’s usually no one else. Like. I mean, there are obviously _other people_ , like they want to know, but there’s no one else I want to share things with. Haven’t quite figured out how to do that.”

“I want you to share things with me. I want to know everything you’re thinking. When I’m being a twat. When those blokes on TV are awful to you. When the pressure’s too much. When you’re too excited to sleep. When you win. I want the good and the bad, every little thing that pops into your weird little head.”

Harry grins at him, soft, nearly sheepish. “I want to share that with you.”

“I know you can. You seemed so certain of me. Like from the very first moment.” Liam stops himself from asking why. But Harry was so immediately ready to claim Liam, to make him part of his life, and there seemed to be no hesitation. Liam never had a doubt.

“I was. I am. Liam -- ”

The door opens the second someone starts knocking on it. The roof has been fixed, the court has been approved for game play. They’re ready for it. Liam stares after the official dumbly until he can force himself to act.

“I’ll see you later,” Liam promises.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Liam wants to reach for his face, wants to kiss him until he’s too close to breathless to play safely. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t need a boost from Harry. Harry isn’t a rabbit’s foot, he’s not a superstition.

Instead, he grabs his bag and prepares himself for the rest of the game. There’s nothing holding himself back now. Nothing on his mind to weigh him down. It’s the final game, it’s the Championships, Wimbledon. He’ll make them all proud.  

“Liam.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop camping at the baseline. Porobic caught me doing that every time.”

“I know.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but there’s something undeniably fond in the action. “Well, if you already know.”

\--

The rest of the match is an absolute blur, spinning by Liam like the world is stuck in fast forward. Liam steals two sets back from him, smashing 6-4 both times, and they’re both limping their way into the fifth set. It’s been a long day, and any time either of them gives an inch, the other takes advantage of it.

Porobic has certainly done his homework, he treats Liam like a true opponent. He’s giving it his all, and Liam gives it all right back to him. And then some. There’s a furious roar any time either of them do something, and it’s electrifying.

It passes in flashes, in small snatches of memories moving too fast for Liam to properly grab ahold of them.

The roar of the crowd. The repeated demands of _quiet please_ , each one more politely irritated than the last. The flash of a ball soaring past at 122 mph. The actual _clop clop clop_ of the ball. The harried exhales and grunts of extreme effort. The absolute cruelty of Porobic’s slice serve.

This is it. They’re both in pursuit of greatness, both having clawed their way here -- the current World Number One, the wild card who defied all odds. It’s quite the story.

They end the last set at a brutal 11-9, and that’s the fifth set. Liam’s head is still spinning, his body poised like it’s anticipating another serve, but nothing’s coming.

“Game, set, match,” the chair umpire says, and then, astonishingly, says Liam’s name.

Liam drops to his knees, covering his face with his hands. At some point he must have also dropped his racket, but he didn’t realize it. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing or what he’s thinking. He just needs a moment to process before the realization starts leaking in to slowly flood his brain.

 _He fucking won Wimbledon_.

He releases a delirious laugh and he doesn’t think he could stop smiling if he wanted to. He doesn’t really want to.

He looks over to his family in the stands. His mum is crying into his dad’s shirt. His sisters are cheering and grinning furiously. Louis and Niall are jumping up and down, screaming into each other’s faces. And Harry’s there. Standing with his arms crossed, a smile on his face, looking like he’s got eyes for Liam and nothing else.

Liam holds up a finger to him, _one second_. Harry huffs and rolls his eyes, waving a hand to give Liam permission to do what he needs to after the match.

He bounds over to shake hands with Porobic before running up to pay his respects to the chair umpire. They don’t take up much of his time and Liam is grateful. He does what he’s supposed to do so he can do what he wants to.

He races over to Harry in the stands, past a long row of reporters with their giant cameras, snapping what must be a hundred photos per second. He stops up short in front of Harry, and Harry bends over as close as he can without falling over the barrier.

“Heyyyy,” Harry says, softly but still discernable over the roar of the crowd.

“I did okay?” Liam asks.

“Yeah, Liam,” Harry laughs and he looks halfway to crying himself. He grabs a fistful of Liam’s shirt and leans toward him. “You did all right.”

“Great.” He leans further over the barrier. In a swift move, he’s got the back of Harry’s neck cupped his hands and he’s pressing a desperate kiss to his lips.

He forgets where they are, he forgets what he’s done. He forgets everything as he tries to press himself closer to Harry over the barrier, just to get at more of him.

He forgets everything until he feels water splashing over him from above his head, like a more concentrated rain, for the second time this afternoon. Harry jerks back and shrieks with laughter, lines of blue running down his face from his damp hair. Liam stands there until the assault is done before looking over to Louis, who’s got two empty bottles of Powerade in his hands and a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Fucking go get your trophy!” Louis screams at him, tossing bottles up into the air, not seeming to care if they fall onto the court or hit a spectator in the head.

And that’s… that’s fair. There’s a protocol. “I’ll be right back,” Liam promises Harry and Harry nods dazedly back at him.

Liam jogs back onto the court, his tennis whites soaked and stained red and blue, but at this point they can’t penalize him for it. Right? He’s already won?

The trophy is real and the trophy is _huge_ and there’s nothing realer than running his fingers over the inscription, “The All England Lawn Tennis Club Single Handed Championship of the World”. Of the _world_ , it says, which is just like the English to proclaim the Wimbledon champion as best in the world. Liam has no idea where he’s ranked right now, and he genuinely couldn’t care.

The gold is cold against his lips as Liam presses a kiss on the trophy like he’s dreamt of ever since he watched his first Wimbledon, crouched in front of his parents’ television, watching it play on the BBC like his very life depended on it.

He glances back over at Harry, lifts the trophy, like _look what I’ve found_. Harry hollers back at him, and while the sound of his cheering probably blends in with the rest of the crowd, Liam likes to pretend he can still hear him.

There’s a lot to do when you win the Gentlemen's Singles at Wimbledon, lots of hands to shake, lots of interviews to give, lots of people standing between him and a few minutes of silence, or him and Harry and his family. But this is Liam’s honor. He has to pay his respects to the sport that’s given him everything.

He gets a fair few questions about Harry, but he has just snogged him in front of the entire world, apparently, so he figures that’s due. The same song and dance about retiring, but Liam’s firm. He is, respectfully, absolutely done with professional tennis.

Liam dances through the long, long day, at least with Niall at his side, as his sole companion, until they break off from the rest of it. Niall leads him down a long hallway, empty but for a few members of security, until he opens to a room that holds everyone he loves in.

He cries, now that the cameras aren’t on him, just an utter mess once he’s got a second to breathe. It’s happy tears, he assures everyone. The tension and the anxiety and the exhilaration and the absolute satisfaction, it all comes flooding out as soon as he sees them.

Harry’s at the center of it, a calming presence with a warm, gentle kiss and the best hug he can manage over the giant trophy Liam has yet to set down anywhere. He has difficulty letting it go, like maybe if he surrenders it, he’ll not believe it actually happened.

“Do you wanna hold it?”

Harry eyes the trophy with hunger. “Nah, I’ll get it some day.”

“Fuck, I’ll hold it,” Louis says, snatching the trophy out of Liam’s hands and carrying it away. So much for Liam’s crutch. But even as the trophy’s gone, the thumping of his heart serves as enough of a reminder that he’s won. Or maybe it’s just thumping for Harry now.

“That trophy is over a hundred years old,” Liam says. “He’s gonna try to drink beer out of it. Or sell it.”

“Someone’ll stop him.” Harry frowns. “Probably.”

Niall kisses Liam on both of his cheeks, before he slaps at him. “You did so good, Leemo. You don’t have to retire. We could really get something going.”

It’s not even tempting anymore. “I’m good, Nialler. Circle of life and all.”

“What’re going to do next?” Harry asks.

“I’ve got an idea.” He squeezes Harry’s hip and leans his head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry shifts to kiss him on the temple.

It’s not about another trophy, the winnings, the glory that comes with being the reigning Wimbledon champion. It’s not about being the toast of Great Britain. All of that is certainly nice, and if you ask Liam, he’s not about to give it all up.

But it’s more than that. It’s the feeling that he’s accomplished something, that he was good enough, that he made them all proud, Harry proud, himself proud. He did it, when nobody thought he could do it, most especially himself.

Liam’s got everything he’s ever wanted, right here in this room. So he shifts his priorities, makes different plans, sets new goals. He’s won the Championships, Wimbledon, and he wants to go for whatever’s next.

\--

Niall has three clipboards in his hands and a gaggle of volunteers surrounding him, so Liam says, “You know you don’t actually work here.”

Niall just looks at him, and Liam knows there’s judgment in his eyes, even though he’s got sunglasses on. “Parent check-in is an actual, genuine nightmare. I did you up three spreadsheets.”

“There’s a coordinator for that.” Liam takes the clipboards anyway.

Liam’s meant to be the brains of the operation, but absolutely nothing about a lifelong career in professional tennis actually prepares you for running a children’s camp. He imagines it’ll get a bit easier once they’re doing the tennis bits. He hopes.

He gets the check-in situated, Jamie the coordinator looking like she’s going to cry when he hands her the spreadsheets, and continues to make his rounds over to Louis.

Liam respectfully declined an investment from Louis, who found himself flush after the Wimbledon final, betting an absurd amount on Liam for the first time in years. They reached a compromise for his repayment of years of faithlessness -- in that Liam told Louis exactly what he wanted, and Louis wasn’t allowed to argue. At least Louis’ got his own umbrella.

“I can handle more than snack time,” Louis gripes.

“You wanna teach a class?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen all of your games, Liam, I know a thing or two about tennis.”

Liam blinks at him. He’s not entirely sure if that’s true, but if it were -- well, the time to learn about Louis’ never-ending faith in him certainly isn’t well after his retirement. It’s a rather touching thought, though.

“Here.” Liam hands him his racket. “Show me.”

Louis grips it.

“Wrong,” Liam says. Louis shifts his hands. “Wrong again. Wrong... Now you’re just messing with me.”

“Fine, I don’t know anything about tennis,” Louis snaps, tossing the racket back at Liam.

“Give us a water, yeah?” Liam says and catches the bottle Louis tosses him. He knows he’ll be lucky to have enough snacks for the kids left at the break -- Liam sees the empty wrappers, and he’s not an idiot.

He’s excited, is the main thing. He thinks that’s what this humming in his veins is. Excitement. Maybe a bit of the nerves, but it’s a different kind of nerves. The good kind, if there ever were such a thing. All he’s got to do is look after a bunch of kids for a few weeks.

He’s got Harry this week, Cassidy next week, and even Andy Murray’s promised to take a week off UNICEF to spend some time with Liam’s kids. Booked solid, he is, with some of the greatest players in recent years. And also Liam. No one had laughed when Louis made that joke but Liam.

He’s got a sense of humor about it all now. Winning a Grand Slam title will do that to you.

One of the kid wranglers is getting everyone situated just as Harry’s taxi pulls up. Liam had let the kids have an extra half an hour of chatting and setting up just for this reason. Harry leaves his holdall with Jamie, who bugs her eyes when she seems to recognize who Harry is. He’s still got that way about him.

Harry nearly runs his way across the court up to Liam. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ , my plane was delayed, which you know, because I texted you about it, but I still sort of feel the need to explain myself, um, did I miss it? I hope I didn’t miss it.”

“I waited for you.”

“Good, yeah, okay.” Harry runs his hands through his hair before sweeping it up into a bun with a practiced move. “Sorry, honestly, I’m pretty wired. I had like four cups of coffee on the plane.”

“Harry.”

“Yeah?”

He pecks Harry on the lips. “Hi.”

Harry grins. “Hi.” He leans into Liam’s side and looks around at his old stomping grounds. “Look at this place, it’s incredible. A far sight better than when I used to come.”

The last time he’d been here, they were still rebuilding the clubhouse and the courts hadn’t been repaved yet. It looks perfect now, with kids running around it, with Harry at his side.

“How are you, how’s training?”

“It’s good,” Harry says, and that’s it.

But Liam knows the pressure’s on, they’re closing in on him now that they’re nearing the French Open. Liam raises an eyebrow at him.

“It is! Promise.” Harry kisses him and squeezes at his bum. Liam swats at him, but Harry’s reflexes are too good. “Go give us a speech, Liam.”

They’ll talk about it later, in detail, because Harry knows he’s got to share. He’s got to tell Liam when it’s getting to be too much, so Harry doesn’t end up like Liam when it is too much. He’s determined to see Harry win them all this year, every single title. He’ll do whatever it takes.

They’re stood by each other now, it’s pretty much sewn up officially that they’re a set, a pair. It’s a new level of exhilarating.

The kids stop chattering once Liam and Harry move in front of them. “Good morning!” Liam calls, and most of them parrot it back to him.

“How many of you are here because you _love_ tennis?” A fair few raise their hands. “And how many of you are here because your parents wanted you to?” The remainder. Liam grins. “Well, let’s see if we can’t turn some of you around.”

He’d had this terrifying thought for a while that if he retired from tennis, his life would be over. There’d be nothing left for him, he’d be left purposeless. But that part of his life was only ever the beginning, the catalyst that could spark any number of adventures, with these kids, with Harry.

“Right,” Liam says, surveying his restless crowd of kids. “Have any of you ever seen the inside of a tennis ball?”

\----

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading. Thank you thank you.
> 
> If you need me, I'm [here.](http://wickershire.tumblr.com) Inspo posts live [here.](https://wickershire.tumblr.com/tagged/wimbledon-lirry/chrono)


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